The Empty Morgue
by BerylCoronet
Summary: Everything seems to have returned to normal in the wake of Sherlock's glorious come-back from the fake dead. But when tragedy befalls Molly Hooper of all people, the Detective finds that he can no longer ignore the victim of the crime in favour of the puzzle. But how long can he ignore his heart or the ghosts of his past as an addict? (post Series 2)
1. Chapter 1

**The Empty Morgue**

Disclaimer: the current modernized BBC version of the Sherlock Holmes universe does not belong to me. I make no claim to it, no profit from this story and I have no intention to publish it with changed names.

Rating: strong PG-13 for blood and violence.

Warning: graphic description of stabbing.

A/N: training as a forensic pathologist in the UK takes a conservative estimate of 12 years, tons of dedication and studying and so much work that most trainees just give up along the way. Going by her age in canon, Molly could have only been a consultant or still in training, when we first met her.

# # #

Molly stared at the updated Home Office Register of Forensic Pathologists filling the screen of her laptop, reading and rereading her name in the box corresponding to the practice area of Greater London and South East & West Midlands: Dr. M. Cooper. Registered forensic pathologist with the Home Office. Finally. After long, arduous years of study, piling degree upon degree and specialization upon specialization, sacrificing nights and days and any chance at a social life. After years of practice that turned out, seemingly against all possibility, even more gruelling than medical school. Finally the much-coveted day was there. She had made it. She was on that exclusive one page-long list, on which few doctors made it. She was no longer just a lowly consultant, but a full-fledged forensic pathologist.

She made a grab for the glass of sweet, white wine by her computer, and took a fortifying drink. That settled it now, she supposed. Her job would from today onwards not only gross out her dates, it would also scare them off as well. She raised her glass in mock salute to all the potential terrified men she was going to meet, and drank again, summoning all of her extensive repertoire of misplaced humour in order to deal with the rising unpleasant thoughts. The voice in her head sounded oddly like her mother's and Molly wanted to nothing to do with that tonight. Because tonight she was celebrating the triumph of all her hard work from the day she had chosen medicine to the lonely present. So what if she did it all by herself? She had done the work mostly alone as well, losing her father during her early days at the university, having occasional postcards for a mother, and the lack of understanding from her mates who didn't need to struggle for scholarships for companionship.

Her position at Bart might have brought Meena in her life, but the long-suffering lab technician had a husband and children and Molly didn't feel like tearing her away from one of the few family evenings the hectic morgue schedule allowed her friend. No, loneliness was a more fitting companion for tonight. Besides, it wasn't such a big deal, after all. In a year she would have to face a brand new evaluation and re-registration. Molly finished her wine and closed the .pdf document containing her latest success, firmly resolving not to pour another glass. She had an early start in the morning, after all.

Her "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" wallpaper seemed to look at her accusatory. It was past time that she changed it. It was redundant now. In the aftermath of Sherlock's glorious return and rehabilitation, everybody believed now. And nobody knew she had believed without questions and reservations, back when nobody safe perhaps John Watson had. Sherlock had sought her out then and she had helped with the same lack of hesitation of yore. Not just to fake his death, but also every time he had needed someone to patch him up after a fight he refused to speak of, every time he had needed someone to run a discreet errand or when it was not safe to send any sort of electronic message to his brother. Then he had disappeared without a word for two months sending Molly into a tailspin of dread, made all the more worse by the fact that his brother refused to see her, too.

At first, there were the rumours blossoming among the morgue, whispers trickling from the policemen, with whom they worked. About documents and evidence surfacing in waves, all proving that Moriarty and his vast crime network had been real. Then there were the leaks published on crime blogs and later in the papers. Molly had found heart in them and began to hope anew. And then he had been back, just like that, as if nothing had happened. In the end, she supposed she should be happy about it. Her name had been kept from the press and everything indicating her complicity in falsifying autopsy records had just vanished. No doubt thanks to the mysterious high connections of Sherlock's equally mysterious and often terrifying brother. It allowed her to keep her career and indirectly, made her later registration with the Home Office possible. In truth, she had no reason to complain.

It was only her stupid, logic-defying heart that didn't get that memo and grumbled about her fading back into an undistinguishable feature of the background of Sherlock's life. Sometimes Molly felt as if she could resent her crush just for making her so self-centred. And she wasn't. Everyone who knew her even a little bit knew she wasn't. Sometimes she was besides angry with herself for failing to be simply glad Sherlock was home, and safe, and back doing what he loved. So what if she only counted as a last resort in a desperate time? He had thought of her for a spare second or two in the middle of his new rise to glory to ask his brother to cover for her, so she wouldn't have to suffer any fallout from risking everything she had – her work – to help him. She should be grateful and able to put aside the rest.

But this rest was suffocating her, slowly, bit by bit, getting worse each day. As she showered for the night, viciously scrubbing at skin, as if she could somehow rip out her feelings through the physical action, she wondered for the umpteenth time in years how something like this could have happened to her, to practical, reasonable, down-to-earth Molly Hooper. She had always had everything so carefully mapped out before her: every step of her career, the neighbourhood she wanted to live in, the words of her profile on , the kind of man she wanted to marry by 35, the fact that she would be the best mother in England to her children.

Molly wanted to curse the day she had met him, but the more time passed, the more she realized he was not blame for her unwanted affections. After all, he had done exactly the opposite of encouraging her every chance he got. She towelled herself dry with brisk, annoyed moves, half tempted to suffocate herself with the fluffy cloth, her frustration spiralling into shame. The responsibility lay squarely on her shoulders. Maybe it was symptom of spinsterhood or perhaps she had starved herself of human contact for so long, burring herself in books and labs, that something had to give sooner or later, her neglected heart probably punishing her by going for the most unavailable available man on the planet.

Snugly wrapped in her bathrobe, she padded to her kitchenette to refresh Toby's water and make sure he had food for the night. Her tomcat was already in bed, curled by her pillow, fast asleep. Molly sighed, looking around her to her colourful flat, which looked designed to repel all things Sherlock Holmes. She changed quickly in her pyjamas, trying to block out both that thought and the precious few memories of the nights he had spent on her couch during his time in hiding. Sleep had evaded her those nights, as she had pretended not to strive to listen to his breathing from the bedroom into her living-room slash guest-room. Her walls were thin enough for that. She had no doubt he had picked up on her pathetic deception. When she had turned so creepy, she didn't know.

She slipped into bed and snuggled up to Toby, who gave a sleepy mewl that could be both discontent and recognition. Molly sighed again, before she could catch herself. Sherlock didn't know about her registration and if he had, she saw no reason why he should care. It had no bearing on their never changing interaction at Bart. Much like her well-received histopathology articles in distinguished medicine journals or her high-standing at the morgue despite her young age or the success of her own, independent research, no matter how small or incipient. Maybe it was all for the better. If he knew, he would probably dismiss it all as tedious, common-place, unimportant or product of a small mind.

She was shaken out of her gloomy thoughts by the sudden remembrance that she had forgotten to set up the alarm, so she sat up abruptly disturbing Toby as she did. Mumbling apologies, she set about rectifying her mistake, as the cat watched with mulish, resentful eyes. "What are you glaring at me for? Missing a minute of your twenty hours sleep?" she paused, frowning at herself. "Just so you know," she told him. "I don't count as mad until you start replying."

# # #

Molly paused and took a deep breath, awkwardly balancing the gardening bag in her left hand and the voluminous bouquet hydrangeas in her right one. The air was thick with warm vapour, burdening her further on the slightly uphill road. She spied a clean stone amid the mud and wet glass on the side of the pathway and placed her bag on, wiping her sweaty forehead with her free hand. She was almost there, the cemetery spreading wide in front of her. But she still had a rather long trek amid graves and stones to the one she needed. She grabbed the bag and started again.

She could always pay someone to do this, but this was her last remaining link to her father and she would not entrust the task to anyone else, no matter how hard it was to find the time for it. The weeds standing fresh and green to cover the grave, nearly drowning the flowers she kept planting instead, were proof that it had been too long. Tendrils of ivy were creeping around the base of the stone and the light-holder was almost entirely covered in mud. She shook her head ruefully.

"Hi, Dad. Sorry it's taken me so long to come," she said forcing herself to smile, even as a hot tear blazed its way down her right cheek. "But I have good news. And I brought you blue hydrangeas," she continued raising the bouquet a little higher. "When I'm done with the cleaning, I'll read you from the Book of Psalms." She stopped sniffling through the tears blurring her father's name on the stone before her. "I miss you so much," she whispered quietly, not knowing if she wanted to keep the words away from the cold grave or from the empty cemetery.

# # #

With the assistant out for a brief last-minute technicality, Molly gave the initial paperwork one final glance before she proceeded with the post-mortem. This one looked fairly straight-forward, the initial cause of death being exsanguination as a result of multiple stab wounds. Hearing movement behind her, she turned, thinking her assistant was finally back and they could start. But the man towering over her all of the sudden was a stranger. She didn't have time to utter one word, the knife entered her body with a slight squelching sound. The pain registered a mere moment later, as the papers fell from her nerveless fingers. She opened her mouth to scream but heard no sound. Her arms tried to come up to defend her upper-body only to have the blade slash into her left one. Pain exploded all the way to her shoulder. Something was making her blouse covering her stomach wet and her screams were still inaudible. She felt the blade into her flesh once again, as she collapsed, but by then she was past the pain, past the sensation of blood soaking her clothes, past crying out. She found herself into darkness even before her eyes closed.

# # #

Donovan raced through the squad room towards Lestrade's office with no thought other than avoiding collision with anyone standing in her way. She burst through the door and caught sight of her superior clicking listlessly at his computer.

"It's Dr. Hooper at Saint Bart," she got out in the space between one breath and the other. Lestrade's head snapped up, alarm suffusing his face. "She's been stabbed." The mouse and a few files fled his desk, as he jumped to his feet.

# # #

Sherlock's mobile rang leisurely and unattended for the whole time it took John to remove the cart of his overcooked pre-packaged lasagne from the microwave, place them on the table and move to the living-room, where his friend lay on the couch, dressed only in pyjamas and a robe despite it being past two in the after-noon, an opened journal of some sorts covering his face. The ringing phone was the coffee table, close enough that had Sherlock stretched out his arm, he would have reached it. John sighed, getting no reaction at all from the detective. Apparently any and all guilt Sherlock had felt for what he had put John through by committing fake suicide before his very eyes, had evaporated and things were good and back to status-quo. Seeing no other recourse, John reached and took the phone himself.

"It's Lestrade," he informed Sherlock, who didn't deign the news relevant enough to react.

Stifling another sigh, John answered the persistent detective-inspector. Lestrade was quick and to the point. "Sherlock," the doctor began, while Greg was still speaking in his ear. "It's Molly."

The journal on Sherlock's face slid to the floor, as he sat up quickly without hesitation, the tiniest hint of a frown marring his features.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: my thanks go to all those of you, my dear readers, who left reviews on, favorited and/or set up alerts for this story! I hope you'll be able to enjoy this chapter as well and if you have time, let me know what you think in your reviews. :)

Sherlock barrelled through the maze of corridors at Barts towards, ignoring John's initial attempts to deter him and stir him to the Surgery, where Lestrade had told him on the phone that Molly was. His friend's angry cautioning that she might die followed him for a while, but still he would not stop. He was not a doctor; there was nothing he could do for Molly from a waiting room.

Yellow crime scene tape barred the entrance to the morgue, but nobody stopped him going in, not even Donovan or Anderson. There was a pool of blood on the floor, by the first autopsy table, surrounded by markers made by the forensic team. Molly's blood. Red, spilled on the floor, like it was disposable. His mind, always turning, rapid and roaring, just stopped. For instant it was the both coveted and feared silence of the morphine all over again. The world was a vibrant red like Molly's blood on the floor. Red and quiet. Then the thoughts jammed back into his brain, twisting in a restless, almost unintelligible labyrinth. He blinked once.

"He left the knife. Sneaking in with a weapon is one thing. Leaving with a bloody knife poses complications and he didn't have time to clean it." He looked at the papers strewn on the floor, some splattered with blood, some having slipped under the table. The body had been removed, but the post-mortem kit was still there, open, untouched. "The assistant was due back any minuted," he continued, eyes sweeping the floor for the knife.

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed. "He said he only stepped out for a moment. When he came back, he found her on the floor. The attacker was already gone." He held up an evidence bag with the blood-soiled weapon. "Fairbairn Sykes British Commando Dagger. Six inches."

"She was unconscious," Sherlock said, pivoting on a heel to look. The lack of signs of struggle could almost be disconcerting.

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed. "The entire time. We are getting the security footage and asking around. Maybe someone saw something."

The latter was a long shot and they both knew it. It was a large hospital and there too many people to ask. Besides, it was hardly the place where one sat around and gawked. The whole matter was extremely straight-forward. Under different circumstances, he would not have bothered with a case. She had been looking at the papers now strewn on the floor, alone in the morgue for a window of opportunity of bare minutes, had heard a noise behind her, turned and the attacker had stabbed her, left the knife that would have complicated his escape and slipped out, his departure eased by the commotion caused by the discovery of the crime. Simple and to the point. Professional work.

"There would be nothing on the security footage," he predicted. "He would have been careful." He looked at Lestrade, who was frowning with unease. "I need to speak with Moran." He paused, half turning, enough that he could still see the Detective-Inspector in his peripheral vision. "Alone."

# # #

There were two people waiting for news on Molly: Mike Stamford and a woman John had never met before. She was roughly the same age as the pathologist herself, petite and chocolate-skinned, dark eyes red and swollen from crying. Mike introduced her as Meena Thompson.

"We met the day she started here," Meena explained in a strangled voice. "She is so nice, you know, not like the other pathologists who treat techs like servants. You couldn't help but make friends with her..." she trailed off bursting into tears anew and burying her face into her hands.

Mike shot him a helpless look. John could sympathize – he wasn't good with crying women, either. Still he made an effort and put an awkward arm around Meena's quaking shoulders, gently stirring her towards a chair. "It will be alright," he said without conviction.

He hadn't had a chance to talk to any of the doctors tending to Molly, but the look on Mike's face spoke volumes. He fished a pack of Kleenex from one of his pockets and gave it Meena, asking her if she needed anything, tea perhaps. She shook her head no but took the tissues, mumbling something not too coherently about her husband's coming over later, once he could get away from work. He spent a moment or two more by her side, until she seemed to calm down a bit and then slunk over to Mike.

"How is she?" he asked

Mike shook his head, lips narrowed and white. "Bad," he replied bluntly, truthfully. "They brought her in with three stab wounds. The one to the arm is superficial, but another is abdominal and a third thoracic."

John's insides twisted unpleasantly. "Damage to the vital organs?"

Mike nodded. "Left pneumothorax, possible injury to the heart, lacerations to the chest wall and diaphragm. Not mention massive external and internal bleeding. They didn't have time to do much before they rushed her into surgery. Her pressure was 80/50 and dropping."

"Who's operating?"

"Harrington." John made an non-committal sound in the back of his throat. Harrington was one of the best thoracic surgeons in London, but even he was only human.

Mike's expression seemed to echo John's thoughts. "She's A positive. You know, just in case," the elder doctor said as if to himself, but John heard him all the same and confirmed it with a nod. He was O positive himself, so he could contribute, if needed.

"Mrs. Thompson is right," Mike drawled on in the same lowered voice. "She's such a nice girl. Gentler than a lamb. Who would want to hurt her?"

John made a face, the heaviness in his chest growing exponentially. Sherlock had characteristically never said a thing and John hadn't brought it up, either, but he strongly suspected Molly had a lot to do with the Detective's faked suicide. His suspicions were further confirmed by the guilty looks the young pathologist kept throwing his way in the aftermath of Sherlock's return. John had never confronted her about it, because truth be told, he couldn't possibly blame her. He knew Molly was too head over heels with Sherlock to ever deny him anything so John elected to place the blame exactly where it belonged: on the Detective's shoulders. Now he regretted his silence on the matter. He should have told Molly it was alright and that he had never been mad at her.

He also regretted not having punched Sherlock harder or at least done so twice, when the man had the gal to walk back into his life and the land of the officially living as if nothing had happened. Here Molly was fighting for her life, after most likely being stabbed for her involvement in helping him escape Moriarty's trap, and Sherlock was off to solve the mystery. Just another day at the office. Always the crime, never the victim, not even when it was someone close to him.

John pulled out his mobile intent on sending Sherlock the scathing text message to end them all, but the sight of his phone made him think of Mary, instead. He longed for the sweetness of her comfort, the tenderness for his new love overcoming the bitterness evoked by his best friend's... well, being himself. He excused himself to Mike and shuffled to a corner of the room to ring Mary. As he did, he remembered almost as an afterthought that, in their rush to get to Barts, he and Sherlock had forgotten to tell Mrs. Hudson of Molly's predicament. The two women weren't exactly close, but their landlady would want to know, so he resolved to ring her, too, immediately after.

Mary arrived an hour or so later with Mrs. Hudson, tea and biscuits. She was much better than him at dealing with sobbing women so when Mrs. Hudson joined Meena in her lament, Mary was there to be level-headed and supportive, supplying them with sufficient tissues and warm tea. John gave her a grateful smile, which she answered with a kind one of her own. Mike looked positively choked up at the scene so John made a point not to look at him, giving his usually more reserved friend privacy.

Some time later they received news of Molly's condition. Fortunately, they had found no other internal wounds than the ones initially suspected, but the thorachotamy had revealed much more extensive ruptures of the diaphragm than expected and worst of all, a 3.5 inches injury to the left ventricule, which the surgeon had set onto repairing immediately. The prognosis remained cautious, with Molly's blood pressure dangerously low and the extent of her other wounds further complicating the situation. Both Mike and John had volunteered any help necessary, but they were assured it was all sorted-out.

With silence descending upon them like a heavy cloak, they settled in for the long wait. Meena's husband arrived after a while, carrying a blanket, pillows and fresh coffee, for which everyone was instantly grateful. He made his wife as comfortable as he could and joined their silent vigil. Mary offered to take Mrs. Hudson home, when a gray, moody twilight darkened the windows. Mrs. Hudson quite predictably refused, so the younger woman shared an understanding look with John and sat down with his landlady again, taking her slightly trembling hand into hers. Lestrade, held up by the incipient investigation, texted for updates from time to time. Only Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He didn't ring, either, probably not wanting to put up by the earful John was fully prepared to give him.

Dr. Harrington walked out sometime around three in the morning. John gently shook up Mike and they both walked up to meet him. Only Mary was still awake, supporting Mrs. Hudson who was sleeping with her head on the younger woman's shoulder, and looking at the scene before her with owlish, concerned eyes. The surgeon looked haggard and exhausted, his scrubs stained with sweat.

"She is alive, which is all I can tell you for certain right now. Thankfully, she received medical assistance immediately after it happened. Otherwise, I would be telling you a different story right now. We are keeping her in an induced coma for the moment and the next twelve hours will be critical. If she develops complications, all bets are off."

He and Mike nodded. All in all, it was not better or worse than anticipated. "When are you transferring her to Intensive Care?" Mike asked.

"In the morning. I'd rather not move her yet. Someone'll let you know." And with that he was off again.

# # #

Sherlock stood in the middle of one of the interview rooms at Pentonville Prison watching as the guard finished shackling down Jim Moriarty's former right-hand man, the same person who had once pointed a weapon at his best friend, as the Detective and his nemesis dueled with words on the roof of Barts on that dreary, faithful morning of long ago. Moran smirked at him, as the guards left, but Sherlock didn't move until the red dot on the surveillance camera went blank. As he had anticipated, given who the victim was, Lestrade offered little to no resistance to setting this up.

The metallic file Sherlock had smuggled inside slid across the table towards the prisoner. "So this is a conversation," Moran said casually.

"More of an Q&A," Sherlock answered blandly, as the other man undid his cuffs. "Did you order the assassination of Molly Hooper?"

Moran sat the opened cuffs on the table but made no move towards Sherlock. "And if I did?"

"So no." He slid across the small chamber in the space between one heartbeat and the next, grabbed Moran before he could offer resistance and slammed him face down on the table, twisting his arms behind his back at painful angle and trapping his legs between his knees, effectively pinning him in place. "Do you know who did?"

Moran sneered derisively. "I don't care who."

"No again. Men in your profession should be better liars, Sebastian. Did you always disappoint your former employer like this, too?"

Moran managed to turn his head enough to spit in Sherlock's face. It was more of a sign of defeat than anything else. "You know nothing," he grumbled.

"I know that prisons are criminal networks in their own right," Sherlock countered. "And I know that the next time we'll see each other, you'll tell me everything you have heard in the meantime about who wants Molly Hooper dead."

Moran chuckled and Sherlock tightened his grip on him in warning before speaking again. "If you don't, I'll break half of the 206 bones in your body and make sure you are being given placebos instead of analgesics afterwards."

"Why?" Moran chortled. "Because someone put a hit on your girlfriend?"

"No," Sherlock said and leaned a little closer. "Because I can."

# # #

Sherlock exited the prison gates and turned up the collar of his coat once back in the chilling late after-noon air of the outside world. He had his taxi waiting for him, having figured out that either way, this wouldn't take long. Inside the car he told the driver to take him back to Barts, but not before stealing a quick glance into the rear-view mirror to make sure the same man who had brought him here was still behind the wheel, instead of a some expected nasty surprise. Luckily none seemed to be forthcoming from that direction today, so, he could afford to lie back and lose himself inside his head.

Hospitals were especially auspicious places for the homeless and he had quite a few eyes and ears all around Barts. A professional assassin would be careful to avoid security cameras, but even one of those would not mind a dirty beggar in a street corner. It was a mistake Sherlock fully intended to use to his advantage. Mind made, he checked his mobile next. John was undoubtedly furious with him for not joining the predictable vigil at Molly's bedside, but had she died, he would have given a sign. So she was still alive, obviously still in surgery, where she would remain for a while longer, given the severity of the wounds a commando knife could inflict. The red-tinted silence of earlier hovered just outside the walls of his mind palace and Sherlock blinked, straining only briefly to dispel the memory. He didn't have time to waste on erasing it entirely and he wanted even less to contemplate the probability of not being able to at all.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

As anticipated, his homeless contacts around Barts had come through, noticing someone who made an extra effort to both blend with the scenery and avoid street cameras, slip inside the hospital using a side door of the building that housed the mortuary around the same time Molly had been stabbed. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the description he got of the man was hardly helpful: tall, well-built, Caucasian-looking, dark or dark-brown hair, dressed in jeans and possibly black hoody. He could go to Lestrade with it and have the Metro be on the lookout for such a man, but then the Detective-Inspector would be tiresome about the unreliability of the source and about the fact that more than half the men in London fitted that portrait. He decided against responding to Lestrade's growing number of calls and texts inquiring about news and what had happened with Moran at Pentonville.

While everything about the attack suggested a professional, the stabbing itself was oddly amateurish. If he had opted for a knife at all, a pro would have just slit Molly's throat, making sure no amount of medical care, no matter how urgent and efficient, could save her. So why the series of unreliable stabs to the torso, especially when the killer was obviously aware she would be immediately discovered and tended to? It could only signify that killing her had been secondary. Someone had simply wanted to convey a message.

Sherlock was certain Moran's poorly-disguised surprise at his questioning had been authentic. Moran might be a dangerous and resourceful criminal, but he lacked his former employer's finesse and penchant for psychological games. He was a man of action, not a mastermind like Moriarty. Moran dealt primary in physical violence. After all, the lack of subtlety in his approach had greatly helped with taking him down and had been how Sherlock was so sure bodily harm threats would work on him.

But if Molly hadn't paid for her part in helping fake his death, that could only mean the motivation for the assault was linked to her directly, which made absolutely no sense. Molly had no secrets, no dark side. Everything he hadn't already seen at the first glance he caught of her, he had been able to fill in during the time he had been in hiding. Besides, Mycroft had undoubtedly researched her thoroughly from the very first moment of their association and obviously found nothing of concern in her past or present. If he had, it would have come out, when they had relied on her to keep the secret of his continued existence.

As he searched for another taxi, after being done speaking to his homeless network, Sherlock briefly perused his memory palace. He had last seen Molly two weeks ago. There wasn't much trouble somebody like her could get into in such a short time, unless she had taken to dating another criminal mastermind. And he had told her that it was imperative she stopped with this relationship nonsense for the very sake of law and order!

Grimacing, because he had thought her to be more sensible than ignoring that particular piece of useful advice, Sherlock got into a taxi. After the whole would-be suicide fiasco, he had initially sought shelter into her flat and so she had given him a key, which he had later neglected to return. But then she had not asked for it back, either. If Molly had recently done something stupid enough to get her almost murdered, there should be some clues of it in her flat. For someone so socially-awkward, she could be strangely extroverted at times.

Sherlock was not keen on going to Molly's flat again. That thing she insisted on keeping around lived there. He had not had much interaction with cats previously, but he had gathered they were supposed to be distant and aloof, but Molly's insisted on rubbing its body on his pants, leaving a trail of hairs behind, and climbing all over him, whenever it saw him. Molly had been irritably glad of it, gushing about how the creature liked him and how it had never before liked anyone but her. However, she had quickly picked up on his displeasure and tried to keep the furry thing away from him.

There was no avoiding the animal now. No sooner had he opened the door, that it sprang from somewhere, mewling pitifully and pressing itself against his legs. Sherlock was about to kick it away, when he remembered Molly was indelibly fond of it and would not have been happy to come home from the hospital and somehow discover that he had brutalised her cat. Before he could think the better of it, he was shrugging off his coat, cleaning the litter and rifling through the kitchen cabinets for cat food.

At least, feeding it kept the cat away from him while he investigated. Molly's flat looked unchanged from the last time he had seen it: spotlessly clean, perfectly tidy and overrun by an alarming amount of pink and peach. He found fresh Scottish shortbread in the kitchen, testimony of Molly's baking hobby, and a newly-bought cooking book by someone named Jamie Oliver on the counter. Her correspondence was still kept in one of the drawers of the small living-room desk, just as he recalled from when he had been bored staying here and he had poked around, and exactly like then, it still consisted exclusively of bills, which Molly archived in chronological order together with proof of payment.

Her bedroom walls were almost entirely covered by her many degrees and certifications. There were two books on her night stand: the latest edition of **___Medicine, Science and the Law_****_ and _****___The Day of the Storm _****_by a _**_Rosamunde Pilcher. All very Molly and nothing indicative of a recent momentous change. Her laptop was in the night-stand drawer. She had been working last on an article on salvaging acid-contaminated human tissue for the ____Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine __and had downloaded a .pdf document from the Home Office website. Apparently, she had just registered with them as an official forensic pathologist. Hardly surprising for a specialist of Molly's calibre and dedication. _

_If John had been stabbed, Sherlock would have immediately suspected his sometimes unstable and constantly alcoholic sister. If it had been Mrs. Hudson, his thoughts had turned to one of her late husband's former criminal associations. With Mycroft, it could have been any government on the planet, including the British. But with Molly, there was literally no one. His eyes turned to the few pictures she had framed and placed around her flat. Graduations of all sorts featured heavily in Molly's photographing experience, along with childhood memories of her and her father. There was one exception: a smallish instant depicting a young couple with the woman holding a baby, against the background of a brick-walled sitting room. _

_Molly's mother had abandoned the family, when Molly had been four. The pathologist herself evaded the subject whenever possible, but that silence coupled with her eagerness to talk about an obviously much-beloved and much-missed father spoke for her. Sherlock had deduced that the mother had been easily bored with the provincial family life and left to seek more enticing adventures. And he knew from experience just how much trouble adventuresses could be. _

_He set Molly's family picture back in its place on the living-room window ledge and looked over the place with new-found inspiration. A dot-light blinked on the land line, signalling an unheard message. He pressed play on the answering machine. The voice on the other end belonged to a women past her prime and sounded too sweet to be entirely genuine in meaning. _

_"Molly, hi. How are you, my dear? Well, it's Mummy." Sherlock rolled his eyes, clamping down on an instant dislike of the woman. Molly was presumably the only person in the world who would mistake the intentions behind this call for innocent. "I'm in town," the voice continued. "And have been thinking of you. We haven't seen each other for so long. Maybe we can have a cuppa sometime tomorrow and you can tell how you have been. Al right? Ring me back at..."_

_Sherlock memorised the mobile number and glanced at the caller ID – public phone. The message had been left forty minutes before Molly had been stabbed. He made a beeline for the drawer with the doctor's personal documents, where it was no hardship locating her birth-certificate. Taking out his mobile, he mentally scanned for the proper favour he was currently being owned within both Home Office and MI6. Just as he was about to dial, the phone began to ring. It was John Watson, undoubtedly with news from the hospital. It was almost five in the morning and Molly had to be out of surgery by now. He clicked to answer. _

_"Sherlock?" asked a familiar feminine voice not without some trepidation. It was Mary Morstan, the long-time paramour John had gotten himself in his absence. "Hallo. It's Mary." Sherlock scoffed; of course it was. "I don't know how to tell you this so I'm just going to come out and say it: Molly developed complications and they'll have to operate on her again. John and Dr. Stamford are talking to her surgeon just now, trying to convince him to let us see her for a bit. We can probably wait until you arrive, but not for long." _

_The restless whirling of Sherlock's mind came to a halt for the second time in the last twenty-four hours. The walls of Molly's flat turned to red before his very eyes, like her blood spilled on the morgue floor. He knew what Mary Morstan implied with her usual annoying tact. They wanted to see Molly on last time, just in case she did not make it alive out of her second surgery. And they thought he wanted to see her like that, too, weighted down by machinery and dying, instead of looking for whoever did this to her. Stupid, it was all so stupid. Just like John's cowardice, who was both too angry with him and too concerned for the injured party to trust himself with speaking to him._

_"I'm not coming," he snapped. "I'm busy with a case, which would go faster, if you didn't interrupt or if John assisted me instead of needlessly delaying Molly's surgeries."_

_Her terminated the call at that and went back to dialling his contact at Home Office. _

_# # #_

_Mary stood for a moment unmoved, with John's mobile still at her ear, despite the fact that Sherlock was no longer speaking to her. She didn't know if she should feel outraged or suspect him of being in need of a comfort he would n ever accept. John came back a moment later and looked her over briefly before gently prying the mobile from her fingers._

_"It was too much to hope for, anyway," he whispered soothingly, minding Mrs. Hudson and Molly's two friends, who were still sleeping. They would have wake them up with the bad news soon enough and Mary didn't look forward to it._

_"John," she began, as fear started to gnaw at her. "I think he really cares about her."_

_John sighed heavily. "Oh, he does. And it's driving him mad right now."_

_"What will he do, if she dies?"_

_John shuddered visibly. "I don't know, Mary."_

_"Oh, yes, you do, John Watson," Mrs. Hudson, who sat the closest to them and whom they had apparently inadvertently woken up, interrupted. "You do," she repeated, eyes trained on John._

_John stared at his and Sherlock's landlady in horror, hand tightening convulsively on his phone. "I'd better ring Lestrade. Maybe he can find him, before he kills somebody," he said without much conviction. "Or worse."_

_"What can be worse?" Mary asked Mrs. Hudson rather than John. _

_The other woman just shrugged one shoulder. "That I don't know, dear."_

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: while this chapter does contain some vague elements from the initial Sherlock Holmes canon, it's not spoilery for any of the novels or short stories and knowledge of the plot of any of those is not necessary in order to follow this story.

# # #

Lestrade didn't seem to particularly care about the fate of whoever had attacked Molly, yet he was very persistent with the questions of her conditions. John briefed him fully on the last matter, before returning to his initial worry.

"He threw the man who dared hit Mrs. Hudson out of the window, Greg. More than once, remember?"

"I remember," Greg said with finally in his voice. "And this is exactly why I have no intention of standing between Sherlock and whoever put his favourite pathologist on life support."

"You seem oddly unconcerned with the prevention of a crime, Detective-Inspector," John shot back more in a fit of exasperation than anything else.

"And you seem under the impression than anyone could ever pin a crime on Sherlock Holmes, Doctor."

Lestrade did have a point here. If Moriarty had tried and failed, then what chance did mere policemen have? John could at least have his conscience clear about having done his civic duty. The culprit was on his own now. As he bid the Detective goodbye, he briefly considered ringing Mycroft but dismissed the notion as idiotic. The man's job description included rigging foreign elections and staging coups d'etat. He would most likely take the call as a warning to go help Sherlock hide whatever bodies there were. As it was, his best bet was his nagging suspicion that, despite all his striving to convince those interested of the opposite, Sherlock did know right from wrong.

With a sigh he turned to his anxious audience of Mary and Mrs. Hudson. In the opposite corner of the waiting room, Mike was explaining Molly's friends that they were allowed a brief glimpse of her from the observation room, right before she went into her second surgery.

"Let's go and see her," John said at last.

# # #

Karen Howard did not look old enough to have a daughter in her thirties, but then the stillness of her features indicated a fondness of procedures that had clearly helped her with that. She shared almost physical similarities Molly, too, safe for the eyes that were of the same colour and shape. The woman was in stark contradiction with the low-rate hotel room conspicuously close to the Victoria Train Station, in which he had found her. She was dressed in a posh, beige pants suit, had expensive artificial, French-manicured finger nails and impeccably-styled, caramel-coloured shoulder-long hair, smelled profusely of Violet Blonde and wore an original Art-Deco pearl set. The only blemish in her appearance was her slightly smudged mascara and the fearful look on her face. She was also currently holding a 380. revolver with a shaky hand and a very adept demonstration of her inability or her unwillingness to use it, as her index finger was on the barrel rather than on the trigger, which also meant the only danger he was in was of her shooting him accidentally. The later was much more likely than the on purpose option, given that everything about her screamed aversion to any kind of manual labour.

"Do put that gun down, Miss Howard. With how your hand is shaking, you could not hope to shoot me, even if you did know how."

The fear on her face blossomed into full-fledged panic. "Don't come any closer," she warned in a voice that was even more unsteady than her hand.

He was beginning to tire of her antics and so, he moved to her side faster than she could turn to threaten him anew and dug his fingers into the crevice of the forearm of her gun hand, grabbing said weapon exactly the second she let go of it, careful not to move anywhere within its reach, if it got accidentally discharged along the way. It hadn't, probably because her grip on it had been too weak. He released her arm instantly and used his gloved hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes widened in sheer terror that momentarily paralysed the slip into hysteria.

"Don't scream," he uttered calmly, clearly. "I'm not here to kill you." He lingered for a few seconds more, waiting for the meaning of his words to sink in. He put the gun on a nearby coffee table in further demonstration, before withdrawing his hand. She lunged for the weapon again, but he caught her effortlessly, covering her mouth once more. "Miss Howard, before your raised adrenaline levels induce to do something even more stupid than you already have, I want you to think. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't be wasting both our times talking right now." He paused meeting her eyes decisively. She seemed to see the reason behind his explanation and as muscles started to let go of some of their tension, he set her free again and stepped back.

"Who are you?" she asked voice still tremulous, as he sat himself in a precarious, worn out armchair not five feet away from her.

"Not the police, which you are avoiding as well, in addition to whoever stabbed Molly."

Confusion crossed her features at the name, before her brow relaxed in recognition. Sherlock briefly wondered just how angry Molly would be at him for killing her mother.

"Then who...?" she tried again.

"Why don't you sit down?" he interrupted her impatiently, indicating the other armchair in the room. She vacillated and he let her for the short while it took him to purposely press his palms together and raise them to rest the tips of his fingers beneath his chin. "You don't want the police to know of your predicament, because you're worried your wealthy, American fiancé would then learn just how many rich husbands supported you before him, possibly even of your dealings outside the law."

"I didn't steal anything that wasn't already mine," she defended, still standing.

"So your latest divorce ended less than profitably and you took something from the ex both out of spite and because you need the money. What was it?"

"How do you know all these things?" she asked eyes narrowing.

"About the American fiancé? Easy. Your 2.5 carat is a Lucida cut, exclusive to Tiffany. As you well know, an Englishman would have rather bought you Boodles or De Beers. An exclusive platinum engagement ring with diamonds on the band and a 2.5 one on the centre is worth about £40,000, if it comes from Tiffany. So very wealthy, probably old money, too. Obvious. Besides, that gun you don't know how to use is a North American Arms Guardian. You took it, because it was small and seemed easier to use. You're wrong, by the way, and I recommend you stay away from fire-arms in the future, lest you shoot yourself. As for the other divorces, I happened to find out a few details of your documented existence in the almost five hours I needed to find you, and it wasn't difficult to deduce the many things that never made it on paper. Now what did you take that made your ex-husband, the lawyer mad enough to kill? And before you ask, I realised it was him from the skill he had to leave you both bitter and broke from the divorce."

She raised her chin hauntingly. "A key to one of the many safe deposit boxes he didn't think I know he has all over London. I got to the bank right before he closed all our mutual accounts."

He lowered his hands. "What was it?" he repeated himself, the overall exasperation he was feeling creeping into his voice.

She stared at him suspiciously and for a moment he thought she wouldn't answer. "An African blackwood boat in a bottle. It was expensive, but..."

"... not expensive enough to kill for," he finished for her as his mind went into overdrive. "He didn't realise it was gone until recently so he came to you to demand it back, but you had sold it even back then. Possibly in an act of silent defiance. He scared you, because this time, when you saw him, he showed you a side of him you had never glimpsed before or maybe just not paid enough attention to anything besides his money to. You couldn't go to the police so you decided to pay a visit to your estranged pathologist daughter instead. She worked with Scotland Yard surely she knew someone who could investigate things discreetly. That message you left her yesterday after-noon wasn't the first time you were trying to contact her, just a different approach. You went to see her two nights ago, but she wasn't home. Her research diary puts her at St. Barts morgue, working on a series of acid contaminated human tissue samples. But someone followed you there, not inside, but to the building, where you waited for her long enough to rise suspicion. So your ex decided to send you a warning. Not directly, of course, I am certain he has a very solid alibi for when Molly was attacked. Either way, you read somewhere about what happened, panicked, stole a gun from your fiancé and ran."

Fear began to spread in her countenance anew and had been wringing her hands since halfway through his tirade. "Just who the hell are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied in a casual tone of voice.

She regarded him somewhat more at ease, though he perceived no sign of recognition on her face. "Are you Molly's boyfriend?"

Sherlock sprang to his feet. He was done here. "If I were you, I'd go to the police, Miss Howard, though for now they have nothing more than your word linking your former husband to all this. But they could provide you with protection."

"Wait! Where are you going?" she called after him, desperation at being left on her own again making her voice shrill.

"To see a man about a boat."

"Wait!" she cried out again and he stopped for no other reason than not wanting to draw attention to themselves by opening a door in a corridor he couldn't be certain it was empty. "How is she?"

He didn't bother pretending not to know who she meant. "Probably out of her second surgery by now."

"Will she be all right?"

"Probably not," he replied truthfully.

# # #

As he walked away from the hotel, he received two text messages within short distance from each other. One was from John:

| Molly out of 2nd surgery but still critical. Don't you care at all that she might die? |

The second one was from Lestrade:

| So help me, Sherlock, if I don't hear from you soon, I'll be staging drug busts in your flat every week for the rest of the year. You know I've got enough volunteers for it. |

Sherlock didn't doubt the seriousness of either of them, but it was only Lestrade he actually needed to reply to:

| I need to see the file on the boat incident involving someone close to corporate attorney Philip Apperby. |

# # #

"Freak's here. And we were so close to getting that drugs bust," he heard Sally Donovan mumble as he passed the bullpen that housed, among others, her desk, too. Sherlock stepped closer the partition separating her from him and briefly sniffed the air around her. A men's deodorant, but too citrus to be Anderson's.

"Congratulations on your new boyfriend, Sally," he commented acidly. "I trust this one's unattached, because really getting involved with a married colleague, what were you thinking? Or perhaps you weren't?"

She glared a warning at him, before bending to retrieve a file from the upper left drawer of her desk. "Oh, go find yourself some empathy," she said throwing the file at him, which he easily caught mid-flight. "Dr. Hooper is on a hospital bed fighting for her life for almost a day now and you're running around already investigating another case. What? Her stabbing not interesting enough for you?"

Several heads whirled around to look at him in various degrees of condemnation. He had no idea little mousy Molly was so well-liked or maybe they saw it as yet another opportunity to look down on him. Ignoring the discounted audience, he opened the file Sally had tossed him with a brisk flicker of his wrist and half-turned to leave. "It was interesting enough for me to work out who did it well before you got a clue," he retorted already walking away. The whispers followed him all the way to Lestrade's office.

The other name partner of Philip Apperby's law firm had died in an alleged boat accident near Ramsgate six years ago. The local police report could have been more inept, he supposed, but no by much.

Lestrade was already getting up, his malcontent written plainly all over his face, when Sherlock entered his office. "Yesterday you said you wanted to talk to Sebastian Moran alone and without cameras. I said fine; after all, he wouldn't even have him without you. Then you go off on your own and now you want to see about a boating accident that's not even a Metro case or a homicide. For God's sake, Sherlock, if you're using what happened to Molly to jerk us around..."

Sherlock grimaced at the accusation and snapped the file he was carrying on the Detective-Inspector's desk. "Philip Apperby had Molly stabbed. Before that, six years ago, he had his partner killed. Not personally, he is not the type to get his hands dirty, but he did pay someone to do it."

Lestrade cocked his head to the side, apparently weighting Sherlock's words carefully. "Philip Apperby? A high-rise solicitor Molly probably never met in her life?"

Sherlock felt his hackles rising. He didn't have time for all this needless, stupid explaining, even people like Lestrade, who weren't complete morons, always demanded of him. "True, Molly never met him. But her mother did and then married him. A stupid idea, topped only by her stealing a model of the boat, in which her ex-husband's business was killed. She didn't know of the murder, but still it was a rather silly thing to steal even in a fit of anger, wouldn't you say so?"

"Hold on. Molly's mother?"

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes demonstratively. Had Lestrade's IQ dropped a few points since yesterday? "Yes, Detective-Inspector. Logically, someone had to have given birth to Molly at some point. By the way, said mother is currently residing at the easyHotel Victoria, room 109. I'd go and fetch her, if I were you, before her ex finds her and you have a second victim. She'll cooperate, if you promise her current fiancé will never learn of her role in all this. Do ask to whom she sold that troublesome boat in a bottle. Meanwhile, I need to see that list of Interpol notices, both outstanding and from six years ago. Apperby is a legal man. He would have started looking for assassins on familiar ground."

Lestrade made a face as if he'd eaten something rotten. "We don't even know how this supposed assassin looks like. We've been looking through the security footage from St. Bart's all night and nothing."

Sherlock drew himself taller, looking the other man defiantly in the eyes. Lestrade sighed. "But you have, of course, your own sources. All right, I'll go after Molly's Mummy and we'll talk to her. Afterwards, I want a full explanation that makes sense from you." He pointed a threatening finger at Sherlock. "And I'll still set up a drugs bust at 221B, as soon as I have the time."

"I'll have Mrs. Hudson make tea and scones for the occasion."

"I thought she was your landlady, not your housekeeper," Lestrade said, one foot already out of the door.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

"Molly? Molly... hi. Welcome back to us! I'm Dr. Betsy Wyndham from the ICU at Barts. Do you remember what happened to you?"

Dr. Wyndham's patient blinked a few times, her eyes bleary and unfocused, before her lids covered them again. Her head slowly rolled on the pillow in a weak imitation of a nod. The reaction wasn't unexpected in the aftermath of a 38-hours medically-induced coma and two difficult surgeries.

"I understand you don't have any family, but your friend Meena is here to see you. We can let her in for a minute, if you're up to it."

The woman in the bed nodded a little more vigorously, before letting out a whimper partially stifled by the respirator.

"It's al-right, Molly. You've been very brave. Now just rest and don't worry about a thing. You'll be just fine."

Her patient gave no reply of any kind. The doctor got up and went to fetch Meena Thompson, the emergency contact person on Dr. Hooper's hospital employment forms. Apparently for good reason, since the woman hadn't moved from the waiting room since Molly had been brought in, while her other friends and Dr. Stamford had gone home, quite understandably exhausted by the long vigil. Dr. Wyndham hated having to repay that kind of loyalty with bad news but she saw no point in lying, either.

"Mrs. Thompson, you may go in and see her now. But remember: no more than a minute and nothing potentially upsetting."

The other woman nodded, pressing a hand against her mouth to block an erupting sob. "No improvement then?"

"Unfortunately, no. Her fever still hasn't come down and we cannot safely remove the ventilator yet. We're doing everything that we can and she has so far fought very hard, but her body is weak."

Meena nodded again, hand still covering her mouth. Dr. Wyndham eyed the small wood cross visible from the folds of her blouse. "I can have a chaplain come talk to you, if you wish."

"After..." Meena rasped, jerking her head in the direction of Molly's ward. "Do you know if somebody can take all the things we got for her into her ward? They'd cheer her up a bit," she said gesturing towards one of the tables in the waiting room currently filled with vases of flowers, small plush toys and even one hear-shaped, pink balloon.

"I'll have one of the nurses take care of it," she promised with a smile.

# # #

Lestrade watched Donovan close the door to the interview room currently holding Karen Howard, also known as Molly's mother. The Detective-Sergeant then turned to face him with an exasperated expression.

"I take back everything bad I ever said about my own mother," she spat.

"She's just scared," he defended mildly.

"She didn't even _ask_ to visit her daughter in the hospital, a daughter who, by the way, got hurt because of her. What did poor Dr. Hooper do to have so many psychopaths around her?" she paused frowning slightly. "Speaking of which, where's the Freak?"

Lestrade glared at her without reprimanding her verbally. He knew all of Sherlock's many and nasty nicknames at the Yard, not that he approved of the but could not entirely fault his fellow policemen for coming up with them.

"Looking for the hired gun among the Interpol notices..." he began to explain before stopping abruptly in realisation. Donovan gave him a meaningful look and they both raced to the room, where he had left Sherlock, who was now gone.

Donovan arched both of her eyebrows. "I said it: we should've injected him with a GPS tracker a long time ago."

Overcome by a dark suspicion, Lestrade started to go through his pockets only to find both his Scotland Yard credentials and his nicotine patches gone. The world's only Consultant Detective was officially a walking-talking cause of aneurysm.

# # #

Two days after Molly had been attacked, her condition remained critical. She had developed a slight fever in the aftermath the second surgery, her temperature having yet to respond to antibiotics. Her doctors had eventually had to make the difficult decision of putting her back in an induced coma. A military medic, John had seen first hand what kind of complications repeated stab wounds to the chest could entail and though he wanted to stay positive, the realist in him warned him to be prepared for the worst.

Sherlock had yet to come visit, entangled, according to Lestrade, in the investigation into what had happened to Molly. A part of John understood the Detective's need to find out who had done this. As piece after piece of bad news on the pathologist's progress reached him, he was very much tempted himself go after the culprit and wring his scrawny neck. He would have also liked to help Sherlock with his crusade, maybe smooth out some edges in his ever complicated dealings with the police, but the truth was that a level head was very much necessary around Molly at a time such as this.

Her devoted friend, Meena was beyond exhausted and already an emotional wreck, not to mention that she had a family she couldn't ignore for days on end. Mike Stamford had a job and obligations of his own, just like like, the ever supportive Mary. And it wasn't fair to dump all of this onto poor Mrs. Hudson. So he had taken matters into his own hands, sent Meena home, organized a rotation of Molly's friends and acquaintances in the waiting room, just in case someone was needed around, and kept in close contact with her doctors. In between doing all that and worrying about Sherlock, he had barely managed to get five hours of sleep in the past forty-eight hours and, as he huddled awkwardly on one of the uncomfortable couches lining the visitors' area from Barts' ICU, he let his eyes drift shut, hoping for some rest before the next crisis erupted.

His respite was cut short by the incessant noise of heels rapping against the floor nearby. He cracked an eye open and nearly fell off the couch in his haste to get up. Not four feet from him stood Anthea or whatever the name of Mycroft's assistant was, wrapped in charcoal overcoat, and regarding him with her typical Mona Lisa smile. John rubbed at his temples, desperately hoping he was still asleep and having a nightmare.

"Hello,"said Anthea serenely. "Would you make sure Dr. Hooper receives these?" she asked, holding out to him the large bouquet he had only then noticed in her arms, too startled as he had been by her appearance.

"Why are you bringing Molly flowers?" he asked rather dumbly, even if he did think so himself.

She smiled indulgently. "They are not from me. They're from Mr. Holmes."

He took the bouquet, which was a lavish mix of cream and pale orange roses with some other smaller, pinkish flowers thrown in between, and stared at it circumspectly. "When you say Mr. Holmes, you mean Mycroft Holmes, right?"

Anthea raised a perfectly-drawn, inky black eyebrow at him. "Naturally. Who else could I mean?"

John was still tempted to ransack the flowers for listening devices but decided to restrain himself with her still standing there. "Well, then, tell Mycroft Molly is one of the few people on the planet who would mistake his intentions for genuine and actually be touched by his gesture."

Anthea regaled him with yet another of her seraphic smiles, before going about her business, leaving with to the further study of the odd token. The flowers seemed innocuous enough and his search had only turned up a typed "get well" note, so formal and cold that only Mycroft could have picked up from the entire selection the florist had to have had available. John wondered what had become of his life that he counted this seemingly minor occurrence as the oddest thing to have happened to him in the past two days.

# # #

"This was meant to be the last job you took before retirement," said a calm, baritone voice, its cadence geared towards affirmation rather than question. He whipped out his gun, training it on the vague direction of the sound but he couldn't aim properly in the the heavy darkness of his hotel room. This shouldn't be possible; all his tells and defences at the door had been untouched.

"Switch on the light," continued the voice, the tone now bored.

He did, keeping his gun up, and carefully feeling the wall for the switch. The man sat in the leather armchair in the middle of the room as comfortably as if he owned the place, legs crossed and shoulders perfectly relaxed. The only dissonance came from the Browning L9A1 held steadily in a gloved hand and trained unerringly in his direction. He could take his chances and shoot, but instinct told him not to easily dismiss his adversary as the slower draw. Instead, his focus narrowed entirely to the nearest opportunity to tip the scales in his favour.

Cool, pale blue eyes looked at him impassibly. "You did everything correctly. Nothing personal in the room or in your suitcase, no label on your clothes, no receipts, non-sequential bills of three of the most used currencies in the world at your disposal."

A hint of something flitted briefly across the other man's otherwise collected face and he knew instantly what it was: a slip of the mask hiding a predator about to pounce. A lick of cold skittered down his spine and his muscles tensed instinctively. He didn't like being prey.

"But you missed her too much," the intruder said slightly dismissive. "You couldn't talk to her. You couldn't even afford to think of her, lest you let your guard down. So you made your one mistake. It took me all of three minutes to find it," he sounded bored again. "An old, low-quality photograph sawn in the lining of your generic Samsonite."

An unpleasant twisting coiled in the pit of his stomach and he seriously considered throwing caution to the wind and just shooting the man seated so casually in his chair. His adversary tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. "I wouldn't. If I don't walk out of here in the next four minutes, a bounty would be placed on her head and your former colleagues would step over themselves to kill her."

"What do you want?"

"You've left no physical evidence at the scene of your last hit so that leaves me with no other option: you will confess – to each and every one of your crimes, up to and including the one you committed yesterday."

"The hell I will!" he snapped, before think the better of it. The air was already rife with tension and his losing his temper would not help, only provide more weakness for his new-found nemesis to feed upon.

"Yes, you will," the man continued as if uninterrupted. "And you won't have to worry about her finding out, either; you can have your identity kept out of the press as part of your deal with the police. But most importantly, you won't have to worry about me sharing the secret of her existence with all the wrong people."

"How do I know you'll keep your word?" he asked tiredly, sensing he had arrived at the end of his route.

The man in the armchair smiled beatifically. "You don't, of course, but what other choice do you have?"

He slowly lowered his gun, certain that resistance was longer an option and even if his enemy shot him right where he stood, at least his death would keep her safe. But the stranger didn't shoot him. He didn't even move past leisurely stretching his legs in front of him on the floor.

"How did you find me, anyway?" he found himself asking. "Not that it matters now."

"It doesn't, but you still should have known better than to accept employment opportunities from people on the Interpol most wanted list, Mr. Melville. There is no telling who could get to them and what they might say, when someone did."

The use of his real surname, the one he hadn't heard spoken in years, the one not even she knew, almost had him flinch. It made what had just occurred all the more real somehow. "You're not the police," he remarked. "So who are you?"

The intruder grinned with an innocent kind of joy, not too dissimilar from the one of a child, who had just gotten a new, shiny toy. The smile didn't reach his eyes that remained implacably cold. "I'm someone who just solved a case." He stood the weapon still unwaveringly aimed at him. "You'd die for her, wouldn't you?" he asked, smile gone in a split second.

"Yes, I would," he answered testily, aware that he had nothing left to lose.

"As far as motivations goes, this one's quite pedestrian!" came the disappointed reply.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Somebody had been in Molly's flat – somebody with a key, just like him. The main evidence to that presence was the lack of cat and items associated with it. It had most likely been that morgue technician, who was enough of a friend to the pathologist to on occasion help her doctor the necessary papers for him to take study-allotted body parts home. In the absence of Molly's animal and despite the noises filtering from the neighbours through the thin walls, the now empty flat was dead silent and had begun to smell stale.

Even with her case solved and all the guilty parties arrested, the red stillness still hovered at the edges of his mind. He inched himself further inside the flat and towards the large couch before the telly in the living-room. A sense memory of physical pain intruded, making him wince, as he recalled lying on that very piece of furniture with a cracked rib and multiple contusions, while Molly attended him with brisk, efficient moves. That first time she had tried to give him an opioid for the pain and when he had to absolutely refuse, he knew he would also have to tell her the reason. There had been no need, as he had watched realisation dawn in her widened, brown eyes. Molly could see him. He had expected revolution or horror to follow the revelation of his past addiction, but she had only given him a compassionate look, before suggesting an alternative. She never asked him what he had taken or why. She just accepted.

He sat down on the couch, resting his slightly stiff neck against the plush back. Another memory flitted in the periphery of his thoughts. Molly entering the darkened morgue, startled by his silhouette and immediately soothed by the recognition. It had happened that way, too. She had been alone in the morgue, had heard something and turned to be faced with an assassin and the knife piercing her chest. He wondered if she had thought it would be him again, right before seeing the stranger. Right before it had been too late.

His mobile rang and he took it out of one of his coat-pockets. It was Mycroft. Sherlock rejected the call and dropped the phone on the carpet by his left leg. He didn't need his brother to tell him caring wasn't an advantage. He knew that all too well. After all, Molly was living... well, somewhat living proof of it. Molly had cared for her father and he had died and left her all alone just as she was starting medical school. She cared enough not to hold a perfectly-justified grudge against her mother; the pathologist had a drawer full of carefully-preserved Christmas cards and small birthdays gifts sent to her by her living parent on a less than yearly basis. She cared about that cat, who only seemed to like her back, because she fed it.

And worst all, she cared about him. No, not just cared. The stupid woman probably thought herself in love with him. Otherwise why would she be so eager to throw herself head-first into the madness of faking a fugitive, disgraced private detective's death and then even go as far as to abide him? No, he amended, Molly was not stupid, and she was sensible and bright enough to manage a complicated work field halfway between criminology and medicine. And yet, there it was: the crippling chemical defect that would, one way or another, get her killed.

It was sheer coincidence that she had not been tainted by association and murdered, while hiding him. If she hadn't on some level suspected Molly of caring or at least, of not being sufficiently resentful to turn down her request for help, her mother would have never tried to reach her in her hour of need. Sherlock understood with sudden, perfect clarity that, if given the chance, Molly would have assisted her undeserving parent. Molly's Mummy herself would have never made such a mistake. Unlike the daughter, she was a survivor with flawless instincts and no useless need for attachments. Moriarty would have never tricked the mother into believing he was ordinary Jim from IT. And she would have easily turned him down, when asked to risk her life and career for _him_.

But Molly hadn't flinched; she had believed him – and had the desktop wallpaper to prove it – and had followed where he lead, like a lamb to the slaughter. Was that part of love? Was the chemistry of it even more destructive than he had originally anticipated? Or was it that Molly's heart was unusually susceptible to it? She was uncommonly nice to everyone so the latter was probably true. But why had she fixated on him? He liked her reasonably well, but she was clever enough to work out that he would never return her affections or even so much as agree to go on a date with her. He did trust her but he had only told her so in a desperate moment and not fully expecting to survive to face the consequences of it. Other than, in her own words, he always said horrible things to her with the occasional exception, when she had put up some meagre resistance to what he asked of her. Even that resistance was gone now. Since his return she had been more accommodating than ever, complying with him without the slightest hint of hesitation, as if she had been the one in his debt not the other way around.

If she died, her replacement at morgue would undoubtedly not be equally compliant and he foresaw problems for the immediate future of his experiments. But he would find a way around it and get used to the new face. This flat would be stripped of Molly's modest possessions and the walls repainted. Her mates would mourn for a while and then move on with their lives. John and Lestrade would mention "poor Molly" on the odd occasion. He would have to delete the unnecessary memories of her from his hard-drive. And she would be gone, nothing left behind but a few articles in medicine journals that would go absolute with time.

If only for all her help all these years, he supposed he should experience something more than a momentary halt in his thoughts at the sight of her blood. Even Mrs. Hudson had shown some sort of regret, when her murderous husband had been executed. He apparently had overestimated the level up to which Molly mattered to him, her potential demise evoking no emotional response in him. There was nothing he could do to prevent it. She was already in an excellent hospital and in the hands of most capable doctors. Mike Stamford, who respected her, and John would have long since seen to it.

The case had been too easy and his thoughts had already begun to spin out of control, tearing restlessly at him, demanding stimulant. He had been awake for about fifty-two hours without a break but felt no stirrings of exhaustion. If anything, he was energized. He stretched to his feet and stripped off his coat and scarf. He had another case, one that never occurred to him before: the motivation of Molly's seemingly blind devotion to him. Maybe if he clued in on that, then he could piece together a reaction to her predicament that was... well, better than none.

An hour of rummaging had brought him with nothing aside form the same vapid, disappointing conclusion of always: just a silly schoolgirl crush. He had found no intimate diary with insights into her thoughts tucked in some secret compartment he had failed to notice before. The contents of her laptop were as simplistic as remembered: overrun with work-related issues and housing an unseemly amount of plaintive contemporary music – all love songs. He briefly considered that Molly might be in love with the idea of love rather than him. He had, also, found a folder with saved online articles about him, but nothing else of note. She didn't even have a porn collection, like John. And her blog was even more insipid than the one of his flatmate. Not it to mention the fact that it was pink. She had written about him, of course, she had, but in such tepid, transparent clichés. It was all so trite and his boredom was escalating.

Annoyance growing, as the hyperactive engine in his head was tearing itself apart at an accelerating speed, he recuperated his mobile from the living-room floor and went on his website. He had a few case offers, all extremely boring, but at least, they would provide him with something, on which to waste at least a portion of his energy. Plus, they couldn't possibly be more banal than this. He grabbed his coat and left.

# # #

All kind thoughts John might have entertained about his best friend's coping mechanisms were out of the window, the moment he returned from Bart's on the third day of Molly's coma to find Sherlock chatting with a client. He purposely ignored the Detective's calling for him and marched into his own bedroom, slamming the door in his cue. He returned to the sitting room as soon as the voices died out. He surreptitiously glanced around making sure the stranger was good and truly gone, before lashing out at Sherlock, who was casually lounging in his favourite armchair looking without particular interest at a piece of paper the client had obviously brought over.

"This isn't just another case, you know," he began, forcing himself to stay calm and outline the problem as reasonably as he could. "You can't just solve it and move on to others."

Sherlock lifted a pair of unconcerned eyes from the paper he was currently holding and asked in a placid tone of voice: "Which case isn't like the others?"

"Molly!" John yelled, self-control evading him, as his anger and the fatigue of the past days got the better of him. "We know her. She's a friend and she worships the ground you walk on." John paused for breath. Sherlock was still looking at him, expression unchanged. "Go see her, you miserable sod."

The other man just shrugged. "What for?"

John saw red. "Because I refuse to think you don't care about her at all."

"I'm not a doctor. I don't see how my visit could improve on her condition," Sherlock replied calmly, before letting the paper in his hand drop to the floor, and he walked past it to stand in front of the window, his back to John. The message was clear: the conversation was over.

John inhaled deeply and muttered a curse under his breath. Whatever softening he had thought he had noticed in Sherlock after his return from the dead seemed now fully gone. The Sherlock of yore was back and John couldn't deal with that without getting some proper sleeping first. Feeling suddenly even more tired than before, he retreated to his bedroom in a huff.

# # #

With her fever down, there were finally some signs of improvement of Molly's condition. Her doctors decided to take her out of the induced coma again on the forth day after her stabbing. On the fifth day they removed the respirator and though she was confused and still under the influence of sedatives, she had managed to exchange a few more or less coherent words with Meena. John was back to Baker Street with the good news, when he discovered – and the surprise was wholly unwelcome – that he had completely misread Sherlock's recent reactions. He found Mrs. Hudson at the bottom of the stairs leading up to their flat, silently wringing her hands. She raised a finger to her lips, once she saw him and John obeyed her signal, listening to the soft, unfamiliar violin strands coming from upstairs. He took his landlady by her left elbow and stirred her towards the kitchen, from where their voices wouldn't carry above.

"Is he composing again?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

She looked at him stricken and nodded. "Since five this morning."

John twisted his lips uncomfortably. It was past eleven now. "Have you seen him eating anything in the last few days?" he wanted to know, as he racked his brains for his own witnessing of Sherlock's recent eating. But then he hadn't been home much lately so maybe she had better luck.

"Not much of anything," said she in a concern-laden voice. John lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Do you have anything I could take up to him?"

"I've made you two some cottage pie," she answered with warmth in her voice, making no mention of the fact that she was not their housekeeper or live-in cook.

John sighed in relief and offered her a smiled he knew to be weary. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You're a saint."

# # #

John tiptoed upstairs, hands clasping the pie pan tightly enough to fear for its safety. He should have seen this for what it was. How could have he misunderstood the situation so fully? After all, Molly was one of the privileged few to whom Sherlock had ever apologised. Sure that had to mean something. John just wasn't sure what.

Sherlock was not in the sitting room, but his bedroom door was open so John left the pie on the kitchen table and went right in. His friend was by the window, back to the visitor, seemingly completely absorbed by his violin. A very faint smell of cigarette smoke persisted in the room. John would have to get him out of there somehow and then search the place for something stronger than tobacco. Just in case.

"Mrs. Hudson sent up some cottage pie," he announced from the doorway. No reaction. But John would not be deterred. Not this time. "Molly woke up earlier today. She even spoke to her friend Meena."

The bow falters and the strings, which emitted a pitifully sharp false note. John winced. "Well, the pie is in the kitchen, if you want to come and eat," John added, mentally willing the Detective to listen.

He stood rooted to the spot for a minute or so before Sherlock finally stopped playing but didn't turn to face him. "John," he said clinically. "Will she live?"

John swallowed, gathering his courage and and hoping against hope that Sherlock would not hear any uncertainty in his voice. Molly was indeed better but not completely out of danger yet. And then there was the ever-present, long-term risk of aneurysm, given the low blood pressure with which she had gone into not one, but two difficult thoracic surgeries.

"Yes, Sherlock, she'll live," he tried to promise.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: this chapter attempts to realistically present an early stage of PTSD. This is not a guide on how to deal with this condition. If you are suffering from PTSD or know somebody who does, please seek appropriate help. You can start here: mental/post_traumatic_stress_disorder_symptoms_

# # #

"Are you sure you'll be all right all by yourself in there, my dear?" nurse Annie asked with a kind smile.

Molly smiled back. "I'll be fine. I just want to do this alone this time," she assured the nurse, who delicately squeezed her elbow through the flannel of her favourite pyjamas, the pink acorn patterned ones, which Meena had brought her from the flat in an attempt to make her more at home in her ward.

She was getting stronger with each passing day, her post-operative recovery going well, and she would soon be released. They had already removed the bandages and stitches covering the minor wound in her left arm, revealing a an angry-red scar that was healing nicely, though. She felt odd, however, as if disconnected from her body and overall numb, which was hardly surprising considering the medication she was currently taking. She told herself that... over and over again, but it still didn't make up for how alien her own skin seemed to her.

She stared at her reflection in the narrow bathroom mirror, at the sunken, sallow cheeks, at the discoloured lips, the wide eyes and the bruised-looking skin under them. She raised an only slightly shaking right hand and touched the pads of her fingers to the chin and then shifted them lower to her neck, before gingerly unbuttoning her pyjama top with her right hand. Her left one remained difficult to move. The surgical incisions and the wounds to her chest and abdomen were still stitched, covered in numerous square bandages. The row of small gauzes began high on the left side and continued down, curving to narrowly avoid her breast. There was another set on her abdomen, in the diaphragm area, going up to almost meet her most severe injury, where a knife had sliced into her heart and lung.

She swallowed hard. The scars were bound to be ugly, much worse than the one on her arm, and she had, of course, options of reducing them, but for now there they were, still open wounds of her flesh held together with plastic and surgical sutures. The memory of how she had gotten them was accurate to a fault, not that she had much to remember: it had all been over so quickly. She undressed slowly, starting to feel a little dizzy, but nothing that worried her enough to call for the wonderfully supportive Annie, probably still hovering outside the door, waiting to be called if needed. She wasn't exactly in pain, she was too heavily medicated for that, but her entire upper body felt uncomfortably tight and sluggish.

Breathing in deeply, she turned on the cold water, wetted her right palm and pressed it against her forehead, still staring at herself in the mirror. She kept having the impression of being out of her body, watching all this was happening to somebody else. She couldn't believe she had been nearly killed and in her own morgue. Lestrade had come to see once or twice, came to visit the victim, who weirdly enough was her, and told her that Sherlock had solved the case, _her _case, very neatly and she would most likely not have to testify in court.

Washing herself and minding her bandages was a much more tiresome task than it had initially looked like and for a moment she almost regretted brushing off Annie's help, but at least, it gave her something else to focus on than the outlandish idea that the world's only Consulting Detective had had to concern himself with the case having of her own attempted murder. Of course, it hadn't been just her: Lestrade had also told her of her mother's involvement, awkwardly looking at his feet when he had to mention her mummy's leaving the country with her new fiancé, as soon as it had been safe for her to do so. Molly had not been surprised and had swiftly changed the subject with some inane question about the investigation to spare the good Detective-Inspector the embarrassment of her maudlin family business.

Her mother had, however, had something delivered to her: a lovely bouquet of purple hyacinth and a small Pepper the Cat, which was still on her night stand together with the care bear from Meena. No note, her mother was apparently as bad with words as she was, just her name scribbled on a Hallmark get well card. Sherlock hadn't visited, either, but that was hardly surprising, given how taken with his cases he usually was. Anyway, Molly had been inundated with attention and well-meaning wishes from everyone from her colleagues from the morgue and Meena's family to John Watson and his girlfriend, Mary. Frankly it had all been a little overwhelming and she felt guilty for not being more grateful to the people taking such good care of her.

The bath had drained her and while she managed to dry herself fairly well on her own, she had to call Annie to help her dress. Returning to the bed, which she hadn't missed in the slightest, was still a relief of some sorts. Annie reattached her IV and put in a sleeping aid. She left with a soft smile and Molly hastened to wish her an uneventful night shift. Alone with her thoughts again, Molly thought over her condition. Physically she was recuperating just fine, given the extent of her injuries, and Dr. Wyndham had had a psychologist come and regularly talk to her, which made sense, since she was a prime candidate for PTSD. Though safe for the emotional numbness that could be very well caused by the medication, she had no other symptoms, that didn't mean they couldn't suddenly start in the months to come. So she made a mental note to continue to meet with the therapist after her release from the hospital. She was going to do everything right, just like she always did. She could get through this.

# # #

It was almost noon and Sherlock still tossed in his bed, irritated by sleep that refused to come. He wouldn't normally bother, but he had begun to experience the first sign of IRM sleep deprivation and wanted to nip that in the bud. The previous night had been somewhat eventful. He had been called by Lestrade to assist with a case so ludicrously easy even police could have solved on their own. Though he had had his suspicions since he had first arrived at the crime scene, the reason became apparent, once he was back home. John and Mrs. Hudson had ransacked his things searching for drugs again. He had fired John's revolver at the sitting room wall in retaliation until three in the morning, when Lestrade had come back, because the neighbours had been complaining about the noise. He had side-stepped the Detective-Inspector's threats of drugs busts and nights in a cell by rapidly dressing and going out.

He had come back around nine in the morning, glared at Mrs. Hudson, who accused him of pouting, refused to eat breakfast with John and locked himself in the bedroom to compose for an hour or so. He buried his left cheek in the pillow with a groan. The curtains were drawn, but still some daylight filtered through so he also pulled the covers over his head to get a better imitation of darkness. Sometimes he felt as though he had a stormy sea trapped inside his head, thoughts, myriads of them, some incipient, some fully formed, information, remembered, and strands of what he had deleted, beating at his consciousness like restless waves against the rocks. Some days it hurt, not in the way a head-ache would, but like a coalescing physical pain spreading from a mind his skull was too frail to fully keep at bay. It never stopped; it paused momentarily when a particularly interesting puzzle came to his attention, but ceasing, it could not. His brain always twisted and turned, devouring itself, devouring him.

Unbidden a memory from the barraged block slipped through defences temporarily weakened by sleeplessness and rose to prominence in his thoughts. Morphine. The morphine had been a revelation, the utter silence it brought a welcome and unexpected balm. It stopped the pain, the thoughts, the need for constant stimulation. Everything inside had come to a standstill. And for that he had become the drug's willing slave for a while. Morphine had not been the only one; the cocaine had had its sweetness, putting his mind in a state he could tolerate, but only the first one gave him the respite of silence. Sherlock winced. No, he was not going back there again. He threw the covers to the side and sat up. He had approximately ten hours before the symptoms of sleep-deprivation manifested themselves more fully. In the meantime, maybe he had a case on his website. Snatching a nicotine patch from the night stand, he opened his laptop. There was a new message on the forum: a teenager, judging by the language she used, complained about a missing Persian cat. Sherlock got to this feet.

# # #

"He took a case about a missing cat," John said in lieu of a greeting, as he burst into Mycroft's office. The elder Holmes shifted his gaze from the papers on his desk and looked at him with a collected expression for a second or two, while John caught his breath.

"And as I understood from the police report, that lead to him uncovering a London-wide ring of dog fighting. Hardly a waste of time," Mycroft finally deigned to speak to him, his tone only mildly patronizing.

"I haven't seen him like this since Irene Adler. And this is worse... somehow." John couldn't be sure just how exactly it was worse. Between the obsessive composing, the even more obsessive case-chasing, no matter how trivial the matter, and the new heights in temper fits and tantrums, he just had a feeling that it was.

Mycroft stared at his desk pensively before his next words. "Perhaps, but then the present situation is improving, isn't it?" He then slowly, methodically opened a desk drawer, extracted a thick manilla file, rifled through it a bit before stopping on a page that arrested his attention. "Dr. Hooper will be released from the hospital tomorrow, will she not?" His eyes returned to John, regarding him impassibly.

John felt the familiar stirring of impotent anger that he so often felt in Mycroft's irritating presence. "He's smoking inside," he rasped out, fully aware that he was bating Sherlock's brother.

Something shifted in Mycroft's expression. "Have you found anything else?"

John shook his head no. "Mrs. Hudson and I looked everywhere," he assured.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, fastidiously crossing his legs as he did. "I approve of Miss Hooper, John. She is very devoted to my brother and has been of great help to him, while he hunted down Moriarty's former network. She is stable, intelligent enough, but not prone to using it in a way Sherlock might interpret as threatening and accommodating to his eccentricities. And best of all, she is not a state security threat."

Mycroft smiled as if at a private joke, while John gaped. "Besides, Mummy always wanted an heir to the Holmes name and I, unfortunately, cannot spare the time for that," he finished and checked his pocket watch with a wide, sweeping gesture.

John could only conclude that madness ran deep in the Holmes family, which had the benefit of explaining a few things at the very least. "We'll all be grey and old before Sherlock even works out that he might like Molly," he quipped.

Mycroft's indulgent smile widened a fraction. "No, John, we will not."

A cold shiver ran up John's spine at the thought of what Mycroft's matchmaking plans might entail, but then it wasn't like he could do anything to stop him from interfering with Sherlock's life, even as he feared the mayhem the Detective's quite predictable finding out would cause. The Holmes locking of horns would definitely not be fun to watch and from the looks of it, he was poised to be caught right in the middle of it. If anything could make invading Afghanistan seemed rather dull by comparison, that would be it.

"Well, good luck with that," he finally said.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Warning: this chapter has graphic description of PTSD symptoms and major angst. Again this is not a guide how to guide. If you are suffering from PTSD or know somebody who does, please seek appropriate help.

A/N: thank you for reading, favoriting and adding this fic to your alerts! Your feedback and insights are greatly appreciated. They also keep the muse happy so keep them coming. :)

# # #

Meena had buried her under all the blankets Molly owned. Her ambulatory medication was neatly arranged on her night-stand together with a bowl of fresh fruit and an over-sized mug of steaming chamomile tea. The telly had been moved to the bedroom with her. The remote was within her reach and there was a Glee DVD in the player. Toby was still at Meena's, as Molly was not allowed to exert herself past fifteen minutes of physical activity a day for the upcoming month.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay on tonight?" Meena insisted gently.

Molly smiled up at her, trying to keep as still as possible. With the effects of the last of the hospital drugs wearing off, an insidious ache began to pull at her chest and diaphragm and she knew it was only a matter of time until it bloomed into real pain. "No, I'll be fine. Don't worry. It's just one night."

Meena frowned a bit. "Yes, your first night out of the hospital. You shouldn't be on your own."

Molly was tempted to shake her head in denial but thought the better of it. Her whole left side throbbed unpleasantly and it was probably best to move her neck as little possible. "I'm OK. Seriously." She tried for another smile. "Dog tired, too. I'll just watch an episode of Glee or so and then go right to sleep."

Meena rounded the bed and came to survey the assortment of pills on the night-stand. "Did you take all of your pilss? Need anything else?"

Molly thought for a beat. "I think I'll have an Oxycodone. Just in case."

"All right. Here let me help you," Meena said supporting her clumsy sitting up with an arm around her shoulders, as Molly swallowed the tablet with a mouthful of tea. "I'll come by tomorrow morning before work," she assured, gingerly adjusting the blankets on top of Molly's chest and around her shoulders.

"Meena, no," Molly protested. "You've done so much already and you're really wearing yourself out. It's not fair to Archie and the kids that I take so much of your time."

Meena's scowl deepened. "Don't mind them. We've got a sitter for a while and besides, Archie's not half as helpless as he sometimes pretends to be. You just focus on getting better and let your friends take care of you," she finished with an admonishing hand gesture, managing to make her last sentence sound like a command.

A lump formed into Molly's throat and she covered for it with another smile, while sneaking her right hand out of the covers and reaching to wrap her fingers around Meena's wrist. "I don't know how to thank you for all this," she murmured.

Meena looked her up and down sternly. "Don't even think about it young lady. You need me so here I am."

Molly cocked a brow, doing her best to look piqued. "Young lady? You're fourteen months older than I am."

Meena winked. "You know what I mean." Her expression softened. "And if there's a problem tonight, just ring. Any-time. Archie or I will be right over. Both, if needed." She leaned and placed a light kiss on Molly's forehead. "Oh, and welcome home, Molls."

Molly smiled once more. "Thanks, Meena."

"I almost forgot," Meena said from the doorway. "Dr. Watson and his girlfriend will also come to visit tomorrow, unless you're not up to it, of course."

"No, it's fine."

Meena closed the door silently on her way out. Molly squirmed a bit under the hot tent of blankets covering her. It was too early for the analgesic to take effect and the hot tightness in her chest began to radiate in her back and shoulders. For a few hysterical moments she thought she could actually feel the pain deep in her freshly knit back together heart muscle. Maybe she could. Despite what she had told Meena, she was in no mood to watch Glee or anything else for that matter. She stared for a while at the dark telly, then at walls and furniture her her bedroom feebly illuminated by her the golden glow of her bedside lamp. It was all so familiar and yet so alien, she almost missed the hospital ward, the comforting whirring of the machines and friendliness of the night nurses. Without Toby her flat was eerily quiet and everything in it too still.

Tears prickled at her eyes and she let them fall, safe in the emptiness of her place. The silent tears turned to sobs soon enough and Molly wept.

# # #

Mary Morstan brought her a lot of organic food, as she was supposed to eat healthily to sustain her recovery, and John the latest copy of _Journal of Interdisciplinary Histopathology. _They straitened a few things around the flat that really didn't need straitening, asked about her cat and were both naturally casual around her without hitting any of the fake notes of cheerfulness people tended to adopt around the sick. Their visit had done wonders for Molly's state of mind to the point that she forgot that she was still in pain in spite of the medication she was taking.

Nobody addressed the elephant in the room: Sherlock's absence. Though she longed for news of him, Molly was loath to disrupt the light tone of their camaraderie with questions that were bound to make the conversion awkward. Despite what Sherlock thought, there was a limit even to her blundering and she did appreciate John's delicacy, as the good doctor probably only sought to spare her sentiments, for which she was truly grateful. She was feeling morbid enough – no point in adding more doom and gloom to her disposition.

Sherlock only concerned himself with the puzzle posed by the crime, not the victim. Besides, she was no use to him in this state. Therefore, there was little doubt in her mind that Sherlock had forgotten she had been injured and only remembered tangentially when confronted with her less accommodating mortuary colleagues. With the exception of the long-suffering Mike Stamford, everybody else at Barts resented and openly opposed his appropriation of hospital equipment and body parts, often held a personal grudge over something he had said to them and generally just wanted him out of their hair.

Still they couldn't get rid of him, because he was too useful to the Scotland Yard, which insisted they tolerated him, and because, as the rumour would have it, big names at the Barts Health NHS Trust owned him unspeakable favours. When inclined to speculate herself, Molly suspected he simply blackmailed anyone in his way with the dark secrets he learned about them at the very first glance. Either way, though she didn't deluded herself it eased his way too much, she tried to smooth things over for him as much as she could by covering up his presence in the mortuary or the labs and burying the stuff he took home into paperwork.

Word of it still surfaced, though, and Molly had lost track of how many times she had to listen to her colleagues' vicious rants about him. The head of the pathology department himself had even gone so far as to repeatedly threaten to stab him with a scalpel in front of witness. The only one who made an effort to be amiable was Meena and that was only for Molly's sake. Molly didn't have the heart to tell her not to bother, because Sherlock didn't know her friend, an accomplished and highly qualified assistant mortuary technician, existed. The jabs and the gossip had only gotten worse in the months after Sherlock's fake suicide, and the whispered speculation had yet to die down. But back then it had been the most difficult. Molly would walk into the morgue, the lab or an office, and people would suddenly stop talking, looking anywhere but at her. Some had even asked impertinent questions she did her best to sidestep as politely as she could. She also pretended not to know they call her "the bride of Detectivestein" behind her back.

Molly refused to imagine the kind of havoc Sherlock would wreck at the morgue, while she was out of commission, all the while praying that Dr. Stamford and John could do something to hold him somehow back, because there was little to no hope of an early return for her. Before her release, Dr. Wyndham had sat her down for a talk, during which she had made physiotherapy recommendations and reiterated the extent of the danger she had been through, firm on the position that she was not to return to work in the next eight weeks.

With John and Mary gone, silence reigned once more around Molly, but her spirits remained high. Though they had little in common besides their medical studies, she and John were friends of some sort. She also liked Mary a great deal and thought she and John made a lovely couple. She had high hopes of dancing at their wedding. She lay back in bed, ignoring the tendrils of pain in her chest and the soreness in her unused muscles, basking in the glow of her improved mood. She was happy for John, glad he had found someone, especially someone so right for him as Mary. She couldn't wait to be stronger, go out to lunch with Mary and get to know each other better. She had a feeling they would be good friends.

Idly she switched on the telly. An outraged reporter on BBC1 told the story of horrifying animal cruelty within a London-wide dogfighting ring recently uncovered by Boffin Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm cursed," Molly muttered darkly.

# # #

Since her return from the hospital, Molly had avoided looking at her scars, washing herself carefully and taking every reasonable precaution with them, so long as she didn't have to lay eyes on them. Not that they were easy to dismiss. The pain of her injuries underlined every aspect of her slow, dull life of late. Her medication made her woozy, which she welcomed. Anything to be less aware of the passing days lying in bed, staring at the irritatingly pink walls of her bedroom. She couldn't focus well enough to read anything and felt even less like watching telly.

Outside her window rain often beat against the brick of her building side wall. She missed Toby but didn't know if she was yet able to look after him. She missed her work but the thought of returning to the Barts morgue made something in her chest tighten in a way that raised the actual, physical pain nestled there to new heights. She knew what was wrong with her, especially as her sleep grew more and more troubled by dreams she could never recall in the morning. She had even looked up PTSD help guides online, but everything they recommended required seemingly so much energy and she had none to spare.

She finally looked at her scars as she stripped out of her night-gown one evening in preparation for that night's ablutions. They were spanning across her chest and stomach like long, dark red snakes twisting on her pale skin, branding her. She remembered the sensation of the knife entering her body and briefly wondered if she had also felt it cut into her heart and lung.

"... 3.5 inches laceration to the left ventricle," Dr. Wyndham had said.

Her stomach roiled and she thought she should be rushing to the bathroom, because she might be about to throw up, but her feet wouldn't carry her. She groped blindly behind her for the bed, missed and her fingers flailed through the air. The room careen around her and she bent at the waist, pain shooting up from somewhere left of her middle, forcing herself back towards the firm ground of the bed. Wet. Her blouse had been wet with her own blood running down her torso. She moaned. It hurt. Everything her hurt, not just her chest. Her right hand was groping blindly at the covers, trying to find something. She had no idea what.

"God," she rasped out. "... help me."

# # #

Long after she had succeeded in putting her night-gown back on and crawled under the bed-covers, forgoing the washing, she lay lay into the darkness of her room, staring at a ceiling she could not see. Her blood was roiling into her ears and she knew she should be worried about her heart rhythm and blood pressure, but she couldn't find within herself to care. Her mind was hazy from the analgesic and she held onto that, waiting away the hours away until the morning. She was wide awake but didn't mind it, not very keen on sleep, afraid that this time she might remember the dreams the next day. Speaking of which, Archie was slanted to take her to her physiotherapy session in the after-noon and she was glad Meena had an appointment at her son's school and wouldn't be coming along. Archie was very attentive as a rule but not particularly observant so, unlike Meena, who knew her too well, he would not read the sleepless night on her face.

Realistically she knew she should be making arrangements to speak with her psychologist from the hospital as soon as possible. Though she couldn't imagine opening up about what had happened tonight. The technical term was flashback, but it was too little of a word to encompass how real the memory had been and how paralysing the fear. And she was tired, bone-tired. Tired above all of being her customary Little Miss Perfect self. She just wanted to stay hidden under the covers of her bed and not think or make an effort, any effort at all.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: graphic description of PTSD symptoms and abuse of prescription medication.  
Sorry for the formatting mishap! This site went bonkers on me today. :-(

Taking advantage of the men in the mortuary being too involved in their spat to pay attention to her, Meena tried to surreptitiously slid out of the room. The scene unfolding by the cadaver lockers wasn't a full-blown argument or if it were, it made for an odd one. Sherlock Holmes snapped insults at Dr. Hexter, all the while glaring at a cowering DI Dimmock, who tried to have his cake and eat it too by both agreeing with the pathologist and listening to the private detective, who insisted the copper had a murder to investigate. John Watson, Holmes' loyal shadow, unsuccessfully tried to defuse the situation. He had been the only one, who upon entering had paid her any heed, smiling in recognition and attempting to say something to her, right before his friend's steamrollering of Dr. Hexter had taken over.

Meena had assisted the post-mortem of the 53-years old Caucasian male in discussion here and despite what Holmes had to have discovered at the crime scene, Dr. Hexter's conclusions seemed reasonable to her. The man had hand an undiagnosed heart condition and the standard blood tests hadn't found anything suspicious in his system. So natural causes by heart-attack made more sense than searching blindly for some mysterious, hard to detect poison. What truly angered her, however, was Holmes' treatment of the venerable Dr. Hexter. The latter was indeed too set in his old ways, but he still was a reputable specialist. Holmes had no right to yell at him like he was some relic too decrepit to properly establish a cause of death. She also pitied the older man, who despite his contempt for Holmes and his desire to stand by his work, had been thrown off balance by the Consultant Detective's cruel words on his outdated suit and problems with his wife.

Still Meena would rather not be a part of it. The last thing she needed in her life right now was to break up a fight, to which Sherlock Holmes was party. Between the long hours her job demanded, her husband's own stressful work and looking after Molly, she barely got to see her family these days. The situation at home wasn't rosy, either, not that she would mention that to her friend, who already had enough on her plate. Toby wasn't exactly a child-friendly cat and her son, Pete, was downright paranoid about him eating his hamster. Together they had all managed to make a second sitter quit just last week. Her concern for Molly hadn't diminished with her return home. Molly was shutting her down, hiding whatever was going on with her behind cheery smiles that were so obviously fake it was heart-wrenching.

She was almost out of the morgue door, when her mobile rang. She didn't recognise the number.

"Meena Thompson?" said a cool, formal voice in her ear.

Meena froze in place. The last time someone sounding like that had rung her had been to inform her that her best friend had been nearly fatally stabbed. She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. "Speaking."

"This is Dr. Cunningham from the Emergency Room at the London Royal Hospital. You are listed as the emergency contact person for Molly Hooper, correct?"

Meena nodded before realising he could not see her and spoke her confirmation out loud. A shadow fell over her as she listened to Dr. Cunningham explain that Molly had apparently fallen down in her flat. Luckily she had not passed out and managed to drag herself to the land line to call 999. She had a few torn stitches in the abdomen area, but no internal bleeding or any other damage to the external operation site. They were keeping her for a few more hours under observation, but there was no reason for her to remain in the hospital overnight.

Her hand tightened on the phone, as her stomach plummeted. She should have anticipated this. It wasn't safe for Molly to be on her own in her condition. Meena had no idea how she and Archie would manage two small children, a prissy cat and someone as ill as Molly in their tiny flat, but she had to try. She struggled to convey the doctor on the phone that she had understood him and was on her way there, as soon as she could clear the matter with a supervisor at her job.

Clicking off with heavy sigh, she lifted her gaze only to find herself looking into the unreadable eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Meena blinked up at him startled. She hadn't noticed his approach, but given the news she had just gotten, that was hardly surprising.

"What happened to Molly?" he asked in a low, tense voice.

# # #

Sherlock's steps faltered, when Molly's mortuary friend pushed aside the emergency room drapes to get to the pathologist's bedside. He barely recognized the pale woman nearly lost amid the white sheets. She looked diminished somehow, painfully bony shoulders pushing up against the hospital gown, and not like Molly at wall. There was none of her usual sweetness left in her now sunken, sallow face. Dark circles surrounded her eyes, telling of sleepless nights. His attention was instantly drawn to her unnaturally small pupils, not quite pinpoint, but still reduced. She was blinking rapidly, as if struggling to stay awake. They had to have taken blood, but in the aftermath of her extensive surgeries, Molly would have been prescribed a wide number of medicaments and the conspicuous lack of an oxygen mask meant no difficulties breathing so no actual overdose had taken place. Therefore, the tests would reveal nothing of concern with Molly's medication intake.

He looked on as Molly gave her needlessly fussing friend false smiles and lied to her about her accident. Memories tumbled into his mind, mixing his thoughts into an undistinguishable jumble for a few moments. He knew the expression on Molly's face and the anxious way in which her left hand was tearing at the bed cover. She had been out of the hospital for less than two weeks so nothing had had time to escalate yet. Molly might not even see how close she was to losing control. But things were bound to worsen soon. He had not deleted a single minute of the long descent following the first burn of cocaine or the resplendent silence of the morphine. He was fully aware of every wrong turn Molly was about to take.

Fragments of the conversion between the two women floated to his ears and he snatched something that seemed of relevance.

"It's not safe for you to be alone, Molls, and you know it." Molly's friend was making a less than valid attempt at severity, her voice too choked up with emotion for her purposes.

"You've been complaining that you don't have space for anything in your flat ever since Becky was born," Molly retaliated. "Where do you suppose to put me, too?"

"We'll work something out, borrow a futon from somewhere and move the children into the bedroom with us."

That sounded like a long and futile argument, for which he had neither the time or the patience. He inched closer and into Molly's line of sight, effectively interrupting the two. Her head snapped up upon seeing him, her face lightening up a little, and her forced smile turning more relaxed. The shift lasted for less than a second, before her expression darkened again. "Sherlock!" Her left hand was grasping at the covers so can hard, her knuckles had whitened out. "Hi. How are you?"

"Shouldn't he be asking you that?" her friend mumbled.

He turned his gaze on the woman standing by Molly's bed. He had seen her around the mortuary before but never had any reason to pay her attention. Reading her was pure simplicity:  
Molly's age or close, married for 6-7 years, happily so, two small children, flat in Poplar, slight  
financial difficulties obvious from her cheap clothing and well-worn shoes, overcompensated for  
in the abundance of make-up, husband in an office job, most likely government employed,  
recently acquired a cat – Molly's, for which she was caring until the proper mistress got better,  
blue collar background, state school, lived for a few years in Ulster as a child

Somehow he had expected Molly to have more original friends. "Yes, yes," he said hastily, unwilling to waste more time arguing with the stranger. Had Molly introduced them at some point? "How are you?" he asked looking Molly over again.

Molly tried to shrug only to end up wincing sightly. He deduced her chest had to still feel tight, if not downright painful. "Getting better," she said ineffectually, her hand relaxing slightly on the covers. Sherlock glanced to where the IV penetrated the vulnerable skin of her right wrist that lay inertly on the bed. He forced himself to keep his eyes on Molly's face. "I can't wait to get out of yet another hospital and go back home again," she finished meaningfully.

The other woman looked about to contradict that statement, but Sherlock turned to face her fully plastering a smile on his face as he did. "Would you give us a moment, please?"

The other woman glared at him with open hostility.

"It's all right, Meena," Molly said. "Could you go see if you can fetch me some warm tea, please?"

Meena pursed her lips in obvious displeasure but went either way. Molly's fingers were tapping nervously on her left knee hidden under the bed covers.

"I must've introduced you and Meena free or four times already," Molly chided softly.

Sherlock was nonplussed by the non sequitor. "You'll come to Baker Street to stay with me and John for a while," he said.

Molly gaped at him as if he had suddenly sported a second head. "I'll do what?"

"You lied to the doctors and to your friend," he stated matter-of-factly. "You didn't fall in the kitchen looking for a snack. You were too drowsy to be able to tell you're peckish. You got up without even knowing what you're doing or you fell on your way to the bathroom. Either that or you fabricated this accident to get a new prescription. Going by your symptoms, I'd say it's a powerful, codeine-based analgesic. But which one? Endocet, Hydrocodone, Oxycodone..." Her fingers twitched again at the last denomination. "Oxycodone, it is then."

The anger on Molly's face was sudden, but not wholly unexpected in her medicated state. "You wouldn't even come visit me while I was recovering from surgery and now you storm in here accusing me... accusing me of..." Her lower lip began to tremble.

"I'm not accusing, I'm telling," he corrected.

"I'm pain," she all but whispered, her voice unsteady.

"Are you, Molly?" he asked, looking at her sternly. "In actual physical pain?"

Two large tears slid down her cheeks. "I don't know." She sucked in a shuddery breath. "Don't tell Meena... please!"

# # #

"I thought you didn't want me to be on my own," Molly said, careful not to raise her voice to her more than understanding friend.

"Oh, silly me! I guess I must've forgotten to add that you also need to be with sane and responsible people."

"It won't be just me and Sherlock. John Watson lives there too. You like him, remember?"

They were back in her flat, after she had been released from the Royal Hospital, and Molly had just broken the news of her impending move to the infamous 221B Baker Street, causing her friend to hit the roof about it. Molly couldn't blame her; she had her misgivings about the whole thing herself, but she was backed into a corner and didn't know what else to do. She didn't have the money for a facility, couldn't put an additional burden on Meena's family and upon spying the empty vial of Oxycodone on her night-stand in a moment when her companion was standing with her back to her, she had to admit it was probably best not be left to her own devices for the time being. She couldn't even remember when she had taken all the pills. Doubt gnawed at her: had Sherlock been right? Was she so far gone already that she had staged her accident to get more? She couldn't be certain of anything. The first hours of her days were a disjointed blur, until the pain of the fall had sliced through the unreality, prompting only one coherent thought to remain in her mind: call for help.

"Molly! Are you even listening to me?" Meena's shrill voice broke her out of her musings. "You're right. Dr. Watson seems like a good man, but I don't know about his sanity, either, after years of living with that man!" There was a pause, during which her friend came to sit on the edge of the bed with her. "Look, Molls, I know you think the sun sets and rises with Boffin Holmes and I've been nothing but supportive so far, but this is different. You're still very ill and I'm guessing depressed too, not that you've been opening up to me about anything lately. You need to be looked after and I wouldn't let Pete's hamster with Sherlock Holmes for five minutes, and I hate that bloody rodent." She held up a hand, when Molly opened her mouth to protest. "Please, just let me finish! What I'm trying to say is that I'm not judging you and you can worship the ground he walks on as much as you want, but right now you have to face reality: you can't trust him to take care of you."

Molly looked away, guilt tugging at her. She couldn't summon the courage to tell Meena that she, a doctor and someone who generally knew better, had been popping pill after pill of a medicament more addictive than heroine for the better part of the last two weeks. Maybe she wasn't addicted just yet, but the prognosis was still not good. Shamed mixed with the guilt and the regret. She couldn't let Meena down like that. She had been supposed to be strong, do all the right things and get better, not put more strain on her loyal friend.

"I'm going, Meena," she said in a voice that was hollow to her own ears. "And that's the end of it!"

Meena would have replied, but a knock on the door cut her off.

"Come in," Molly called out, relief washing over her at the interruption.

Sherlock opened the door and took in the picture they made: Molly still tucked in bed, Meena sitting next to her and the conspicuously missing bag he had asked be packed in a surprisingly polite manner over an hour ago.

"Oh, for God's sake!" he let out in an exasperated huff. "Do you two think you'll be finished with the hear-to-heart sometime tonight?"

Trust Sherlock to light up a match in a gasoline deposit. Meena shot him dirty look before turning a pleading one on Molly. "Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?"

Molly nodded. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed for good measure.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: graphic description of the Oxycodone withdrawal, addiction talk and general bleakness.

The taxi ride was in no way less tense than the spat with Meena back at the flat. Sherlock had summoned John over and the doctor had arrived just as they were preparing to leave. Since the Detective was scarce with the details, Molly tried to explain the situation to the best of her abilities, letting out the part about her pain-killer. She had also apologised profusely about putting them out and promised to be out of both of their hairs as soon as she got a bit stronger. Sherlock's mouth had pulled tight at that, but he had had nothing to say. John had looked stumped and babbled about how she was welcome to stay as long as needed and how much Mrs. Hudson would love to have her near. Molly gave him as many grateful smiles as she could manage, all the while feeling Sherlock's measuring gaze on her.

The back of the taxi car was positively suffocating. John kept casting questioning looks her way then tried to peer over her at Sherlock, who was silent and stared out of the window, apparently lost in thought. Molly was trying to make herself as small as possible. On top of everything, the excruciating day she had been through was taking its toll on her. She was getting dizzy again, her whole left side hurt, there was a funny ringing in her ears and her throat was dry. She pressed her hands together in her lap and found them to be her palms cold and clammy. She stared ahead, as the drive seemed to stretch into eternity.

When they were finally at 221B, John jumped out of the taxi, as if the care were on fire but then seemed to catch himself and turned to help her out as well, while Sherlock paid the cabbie. The crisp evening air revived her a bit and she got inside without any stumbling. John remained at her side, watchful of her every move. Mrs. Hudson did indeed look happy to see her, her grin huge and her eyes wet with an emotion that moved Molly and put her on the verge of tears again. The elder woman hugged her and Molly forced herself not to grunt at the pressure on her throbbing torso. Then John went ahead with her up the stairs, while Mrs. Hudson tugged on Sherlock's coat sleeved to whisper something in his ear that visibly irritated him.

The short trip upstairs took all of Molly's remaining energy and she almost tripped on her feet, as the wallpaper of the sitting room danced before her clouded eyes. John was quick to steady her, his voice warm, while he assured her that she was going to be just fine and supported her in a poorly lit bedroom. He helped her into bed, tugging her shoes off, as he did, and then pulling some kind of cover over her. Her eyes closed as if of their own volition. She felt absolutely winded. She thought she heard Sherlock's voice say something that might or not have been addressed to her, but it came from too far away for her to make out his words. Then she knew nothing.

# # #

"DI Dimmock rang me while you were at Molly's. He wanted to know where you were," John said in a low tone of voice, once Sherlock's bedroom door was closed in his wake. Molly was sleeping on the bed inside. Her breathing was regular and while her pulse was little low, he had seen no reason for alarm. Hopefully she would have an uneventful rest.

Sherlock was sprawled on the sitting room couch, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling. He made a wide sweeping gesture at the room with his right hand, as if that were answer enough to John's words. John took a cautious step further into the room, his eyes trained on his friend. The Detective looked absorbed by some inner puzzle.

"He wants to know if you'll get back to that natural causes death you think it's poisoning," John persevered, not really wanting Sherlock back on the case under the circumstances but still feeling obligated to relay the message.

"I know. He texted me too," Sherlock said placidly while standing up and stripping off his coat. "Go and fetch me a bed set and pillows from Mrs. Hudson. And if Dimmock rings again, tell him he should first get that idiot Hexter to do his job properly and look for the poison in the victim's blood and then hand me back the case."

John was too stunned to do anything but walk towards the stairs as if on auto-pilot, his mind buzzing with his own Hamletian question: to ask or not to ask what was going on. Sherlock didn't need any autopsy confirmation of his deductions to pursue a murder investigation, if he found it interesting enough. His sudden disinterest was enough of an omen, but John was disinclined to discourage the self-diagnosed highly functioning sociopath from looking after someone he cared for.

# # #

Molly woke up shaking with cold and to the odd, quite literal feeling of her skin crawling. She curled in on herself, pulling the covers tighter around her, the move dislodging the nausea settling in the pit of her stomach. She was distracted from the malaise by the foreign sight of the room around her. The colours and furniture were all wrong for her bedroom, her periodic table was a smaller, laminated picture above her desk in the living-room, and last she had seen of it, her bed set was not completely white, but a colourful flower print. The events of the previous day slammed into her memory, putting even more strain on her upset stomach. She sat up gingerly, pressing a hand against her mouth, trying to stave off the urge to heave, and wondered idly, possibly stupidly too, considering the priority her poor physical condition posed, just in whose room she was. She fervently hoped it wasn't Sherlock's.

She slid from the bed and stumbled towards the door, fighting the mortification of anyone seeing her in this state. The door was wrenched open before she could even touch the knob. Sherlock stood on the other side, his eyes assessing her from head to toe.

"Come on," he said. "Bathroom."

He loosely gripped her right arm and stirred her through another door, while the world and the walls whirled around her. She dropped to her knees before the toilet, the impact resonating in her bones and refreshing the pain in her upper body. But that was nothing compared to the way her stomach tried to climb up and throw itself out of her body through her throat and mouth. She dry-heaved and spat bile in the porcelain bowl but she doubted she had anything to throw up properly. She was almost positive she hadn't eaten anything the day before, having only the glucose IV given to her in the emergency room to sustain her.

She grasped onto the edge of the toilet bowl for support, as her muscles seemed to liquefy, while a firm hand held her hair back. She was shaking almost violently, feeling chilled, despite the fact that she was fully dressed in jeans and jumper. Distantly she heard the sound of a running faucet and then a warm, wet cloth was pressed to her forehead. She took a deep, steadying breath. The taste in her mouth was awful and she spat again trying to rid herself of it. The cloth moved to her cheeks and mouth, wiping the sweat off her face.

"It's all right," whispered a familiar baritone voice. "You're all right now."

Molly fought to centre herself against the onslaught of the sensations rampant in her tormented body. She heard the faucet again and this time the edge of a glass was pressed against the seam of her lips. She gargled, washing away the foul taste in her mouth and throat and then drank, realising with a start just how thirsty she was. The toilet was flushed.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

She nodded weakly, feeling her stomach settle down somewhat. His hand covered her left one on the edge of the bowl, while his other arm wrapped itself around her middle, carefully drawing her up. The sound momentarily disappeared from her ears and she saw bright spots in front of her eyes. He held her up, while she panted through the new bout of dizziness. The room moved with her, as she found herself gently tilted and scooped up bridal style. If this didn't put a dent into her fantasies of being in Sherlock's arms, she didn't know what would. Feeling her cheeks heat up, which was at least a welcome break from the chills still rocking the rest of her body, she squeezed her eyes shut, half-wishing she were anywhere but there, while some other part of her just wanted to cling to him, bury her face into his chest and stay forever in the safety of his arms, away from pain, drugs and bad memories.

The warmth of his embrace lasted too little and she soon felt him laying her back down on the bed. She opened her eyes, as he was pulling the duvet over her, desperately trying to look anywhere but at his face. With her head clearer, the enormity of what had happened in the bathroom began to sink in. She doubted she would ever dare look him in the eye again.

His cool, dry hand rested briefly on her forehead. "You don't seem to be running a fever," he said thoughtfully, as if to himself.

He moved away from her and she buried her face in a pillow, seeking to will at least some of her embarrassment away. The pillow smelled both alien and familiar of something earthy and potent with an underlying aroma of herbs and citrus. It smelled of him, she realised and immediately thought she was not so bad off, if she could still daydream of him, while he was still in the same room. Either that or she had finally lost her mind. He returned with a clinical mercury-in-glass thermometer, which he held out to her.

"To make sure," he told her.

She slipped the thermometer as discreetly as she could inside her sweater and under her armpit. She shouldn't have bothered. He was looking somewhere above her, rather than directly at her. His expression was hard to read, overall collected, but softer than what she had come to associate with him. Her whole body ached like a sore bruise and that did put a damper on her embarrassment and any tender feelings derailing her attention.

He put a blanket over the duvet enveloping her, looking fully absorbed by the inane task. "Do you remember what happened yesterday and where you are now?"

"Yes, I remember. And I'm in your and John's flat in Baker Street."

He nodded, satisfied with the answer, before finally meeting her eyes. She tried not to flinch from the unexpected intensity of his gaze. "You're going through withdrawal from the Oxycodone. Normally you shouldn't be going off it so abruptly, but under the circumstances, it's for the best."

She nodded, knowing he was right, and shuddering, as a fresh chill washed over her.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

She hesitated, trying to evaluate the sensations in her body as clinically as possible. "Just muscle soreness and a tightness across the chest," she responded.

"You can try and see if you can stomach some Ibuprofen later. Speaking of which, I got some coal tablets for you," he said before disappearing into the bathroom again.

"Where's John?" she called after him.

"I dispatched him to his girlfriend for the day," he explained as if he was commenting on the weather, when he returned with a glass of fresh water. "He keeps texting me to keep the racket to a minimum and not to blow up the flat with you in it."

He casually supported her with an arm around her shoulders as she drank two coal pills.

"I'm sorry to put the both of you out like this," she apologised meekly.

His wide grimace moved every facial muscle he had, his mouth twisting with the disgust of eating something bad at her words. "Do stop being tedious with your apologies, Molly. If we didn't want you here, I wouldn't have dragged you away from Meena's overbearing care."

Molly shut up. She could see how her guilty demeanour could become redundant quickly and besides, it wasn't like she was in any state to be on her own, anyway. Too late she realised he had actually remembered Meena's name.

Something occurred to her. "Does John know about the Oxycodone?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not unless you want to tell him."

She let that sink in for a few minutes. She trusted John, but their friendship seemed to rely on silently agreed on rule of no shared confidences. Besides, he wasn't the kind of specialist she wanted to tell. "I... I have a psychologist at St. Bart's. I'd rather see him, when I'm able."

Sherlock only nodded. "I can call up Mrs. Hudson later to arrange the things your friend packed for you in my closet, if you want. I've already moved some of my clothes into John's bedroom."

Molly didn't know how to feel about the fact that he had put her in his bedroom. With more expressions of regret over taking over his space out of the question, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Ok. Thank you, Sherlock."

He studied her intently, seemed to be think for a beat and then said: "Or should I go and fetch her now to help you change into something more comfortable?"

"If she's not busy..."

"Tell me if you've got a temperature," he said from the doorway.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock ignored the poisoning case and the DI Dimmock for two days straight. It took him three days to solve it afterwards and thought it all, he was truly horrible to poor Dr. Hexter at St. Bart's. John suspected the main fault Sherlock found with the man was that he wasn't Molly Hooper. He never said a word, however, for fear of further aggravating the Detective. Once the murderer was in police custody – the dead man's resentful step-son, who had been poisoning him slowly for years, causing a heart condition that had ultimately killed him – they wasted no time in heading back to Baker Street. At home, they found Molly curled up in the leather chair in the sitting room, wrapped in a blanket, and staring aimlessly at the telly. John thought he could never get used to seeing her like that, wan, apathetic and sunken onto herself. Her eyes were dull and lifeless and John had an inkling that she saw nothing of what was happening on the television screen.

She perked up at the sight of them, but her smile was strained. John shook himself, smiling back, trying to look cheery and hoping she hadn't caught what had to have been a stricken look on his face upon seeing her like that. Amazingly Sherlock seemed to handle things better... or just ignore the existence of the problem altogether. John couldn't tell for certain, because his friend was still in Consultant Detective mode, all coat collar turned up and cheekbones of mystery. Sherlock offered Molly some tea, to which she said yes, so he disappeared into the kitchen. John reminded himself to shut his mouth.

He pulled a chair closer to their house guest, who appeared to have turned back to the cooking show on the telly. John chided himself internally – he was a veteran who had had his own round with PTSD, not to mention a medical doctor. There was no reason for him to be so bad at this.

"So was your day?" he asked awkwardly.

Molly shrugged. "I watched too much telly... even for me," she answered wryly.

Sherlock returned with a steaming mug, which she handed to Molly.

"Decaf would be better," John interjected, worried for the condition of Molly's heart and that Sherlock might have given her Assam, which last he knew, it was all they had in terms of tea.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "It's chamomile, John. How much caffeine do you suppose that has?"

It looked like Mrs. Hudson has also stocked their kitchen in addition to caring for Molly for the past three days.

"I found chicken with roasted vegetables in the fridge. Would you like some?" Sherlock casually asked Molly, who looked skittish at that and apparently still unable to deny him anything, she confirmed that she did. The look on her face told a different story, though.

John got up and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. The Detective and food didn't go well together, even when all he had to do was warm it up, and John wanted to make sure no unfortunate accident would befall their dinner. Besides, there was no telling what was lurking in their microwave. Thankfully, when he checked, he found no sight of the decapitated toad that had been there for days prior to Molly's moving in. Through it all, his mind was abuzz with curiosity. Either Sherlock was doing things right with Molly by accident or the man had secret talents.

Dinner was a moderately awkward affair up until Molly asked about their case and Sherlock took over the conversation, which meant he let no one safe himself talk, but for once John was eager to let him to it, if only to put an end to the uneasy silence. The Detective didn't miss the opportunity to preen and gloat about how his intellectual prowess had expedited an arrest in a murder inquiry that wouldn't even have existed without him. While Sherlock spoke, John kept an eye on Molly, who picked at her food and threw around shaky smiles. She was trying so hard to be her old self, when clearly all she wanted was to hide away from world, that it was heart-breaking. He made a mental note to have Mary visit as soon as possible. They had wanted to give Molly space initially, but maybe interaction with someone outside the Baker Street trio would do her some good.

# # #

Molly lay in the darkness, as fear coursed through her aching body. There was a certain physicality to the near terror she was experiencing. She had given up on sleep a while ago, after tossing and turning in the bed for the better part of the night. She was cold, too: dressed in flannel pyjamas, bundled under both duvet and blanket in a warm room, and she was still chilled. At least, the nausea was gone and she had managed to keep some food down in the past few days.

There was a soft knock on the door and then: "Molly? It's Sherlock. May I come in?"

She was once more struck by the oddity of him of all people asking permission to enter his own bedroom. "Yes, of course," she said.

She heard the door open and a moment later she was blinking in the twilight light of the lamp in the corner. He was dressed in a tartan robe over what she assumed was his night wear and was examining her carefully.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," she began warily.

He just shook his head. "I wasn't sleeping. Panic attack or just chills?" he wanted to know.

It took her a moment to realise her teeth were chattering. "A bit of both," she gritted out.

He nodded and crossed the room to place a hand on her forehead and then her right cheek. There was no added dimension of affection to gesture, just a clinical appraisal of temperature, but still she felt comforted somehow. There was a very different type of anxiety attack in her future, she could tell.

"You're running a fever," he said sombrely and handed her the thermometer from the bedside table.

"I don't think it's related to my injuries," she opined faintly.

"No, it's still the Oxycodone," he threw over his shoulder, as he headed into the bathroom. A few seconds later, she heard the water running.

Her temperature was 38.1. He pulled the covers off of her and helped her into the bathroom. His small tub was half-full. He tested the water and then switched it off. She supposed that in hindsight it made sense they tried and lowered her fever without her taking any more medication.

He turned to look at her leaning on the door-frame for support. "Will you be all right in here by yourself or should I go and fetch Mrs. Hudson?"

Molly had no intention of waking his poor landlady up at this obscene hour, especially since she was certain the woman would indeed come and help without complaint. "No, I'll be ok," she assured him.

He didn't looked convinced but didn't contradict her, either. "I'll fix you some tea," he told her on his way out.

As she undressed, she caught a fresh glimpse of her scars. The lower one had been made worse by the torn stitches. She had to be careful with them in the bath. _Don't dwell_, she told herself. The last thing she needed right now was another flashback. Her fear racketed up a notch and she grabbed onto the sink, as she took a few seconds to regain her footing. Tying up her hair the best she could, she got into the lukewarm water. She remembered throwing up with Sherlock holding her hair in this very room just a few days ago. She had already accepted that she had never stood a chance with him, but now she was afraid she had lost his respect and trust, too. Nobody saw something like that without consequences. She looked down at her disfigured body and closed her eyes, wishing she could just slip away from all this, if only for a while.

A rather harsh knock on the door startled her. "Molly? Molly! Are you ok in there?"

Molly jerked up, realising she had gotten the operation sight wetter than it was probably safe. She was also shivering worse than before and the abrupt move had made her dizzy again. Getting her bearings enough to formulate a reply took her a while. She climbed out of the tub as fast as she could, trailing water all over the tiled floor, and grabbed desperately at a towel, which she used to dab at the droplets of liquid on her upper body. She was nearly blind with panic and her heart was racing in her ears.

The door was thrown open and her lungs all but failed her at the inevitability of his seeing her scaring. She hastily wrapped the towel in her hands around her torso but knew it had been a few instants too late.

"Don't look," she wheezed. "Don't look!"

He came in and grasped her wrists firmly holding them up in front of her face, his thumbs digging into her pulse points. "Molly, you're having a panic attack. Look at me! I'm not looking anywhere but your eyes."

Her sight was hazy and she couldn't tell if it were indeed so, as his face swam in and out of her view. "Don't..." she mumbled. Hot tears were running down her cheeks. Perhaps they were the ones blurring her gaze. "I don't want you to see them!"

He let go of her wrists slowly only to take off his robe, which he put around her shoulders. She propelled herself forward and buried her face into the cotton of his pyjama top just above his heart. Sobs racked her body, as he put strong, steadying arms around her. She was going to lose the little they had, she knew it. He would never rely on her again, after seeing her so weak, so pathetic. She clung to him desperately, wishing she could stop herself while at the same time craving the soothing contact. He nosed into her hair, telling her again that she would be all right and that it would get better. She wanted to believe him. She needed him to be right this time too, just the way he always was.

# # #

She couldn't say if she was better or not, once she was dry again and back in bed, an additional blanket staved on top of her. Sherlock sat on the edge, pressing a cool, wet cloth to her forehead. She wasn't looking at him; she was past being able to. So she stared at the far wall, not knowing what to feel aside from the receding anxiety.

"I didn't see them," he said softly, removing his hand from her. "You scars," he continued by way of explanation.

She shut her eyes and wished she could sleep or that he would go away, no matter how much some needy part of her wanted him to stay.

"If you're feeling self-conscious about the last few days, don't! I have been much worse myself, when I went through withdrawal from both cocaine and morphine. Not to mention the relapses: two for cocaine and three for morphine."

She cracked an eye open. "Morphine?" she murmured. "Why morphine?"

There was a pause and for a moment there she thought no answer would be forthcoming.

"It made it stop," he explained. "Sometimes I think my brain is scratching at the insides of my head, trying to crawl out. It has a mind of its own and it's tearing itself apart. The morphine put an end to it."

She pulled a hand from under the covers and groped blindly for his. Somewhere along the way he intercepted her and their fingers entwined. She turned her head slowly to face him. His eyes were uncertain, haunted and widened a fraction when they met hers. She squeezed his hand and his own grip tightened, as they clung to each other.

"Even before this happened, I always felt alone, like I was the odd one out, the one who didn't belong anywhere. I guess that's why I work with the dead. I get along with them better than with the living," she confessed.

One of his fingers slid to her pulse point. He was taking her pulse. She didn't comment on it just moved her thumb to do the same.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sherlock is playing Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita No. 1 in B Minor, BWV 1002: watch?v=zzNNOnVLkfs

# # #

John had expected more of a change to their never quiet flat, now that Molly had temporarily joined them. It was true that Sherlock no longer used the walls for target practice and that he had taken to receiving clients in Mrs. Hudson's spare room downstairs, to which their long-suffering landlady didn't object, easily guessing the reason and having justified it in the beginning by stating that she hardly ever used it anyway. Sherlock had also dialled down the volume of his temper tantrums, but either than that, things remained unchanged. Their fridge was still an amalgam of human body parts and food in part brought over by Mrs. Hudson and in part ordered as take-away. The Detective still conducted potentially dangerous experiments on their kitchen table and went on cases as usual. It could almost be disappointing; John had initially hoped for something more revolutionary to accompany their change in locative situation.

The truly noticeable difference was that Sherlock tended to be more... there. That translated in him acting more infrequently as if he inhabited his own empty planet. Unfortunately, that also allowed him to be more aware of John's comings and goings and ask impertinent questions about them so the doctor could not be sure if he didn't prefer it when Sherlock talked to him for days, while he was outside London. Molly or at least sick Molly seemed also be the only person in existence the boundaries of whom Sherlock occasionally respected. That didn't mean much, but at least, Sherlock didn't poke his nose around her Kindle or around her clothes in his closet. Molly was his polar opposite. She always inquired very politely if she could use various things around the flat, to which the Detective responded irritatedly that she should take whatever she wanted as long as stopped with the incessant asking.

For his part, John was careful to chronography on his blog only those cases that were less likely to attract the attention of tabloids. To his common chagrin, Sherlock was an even bigger media sensation since his return and the last thing they needed right now was for some reporter to snap a picture of Molly in their flat. He also arranged visits from both Mary and Molly's friend, Meena. She had timed the latter when Sherlock hadn't been home, because Meena openly disliked him, acted as if he had kidnapped Molly and he had even heard her grumble that the pathologist looked worse in their care. John wished that last one weren't the truth, but Molly was in a strangely bad shape, given the time that had gone by since her release from the hospital.

There was no reason for her vomiting and generally barely being able to stand at this point, unless she and Sherlock were hiding something. The feeling was pervasive, enforced by the fact that they avoided to look at each other in his presence and by Sherlock's vehemence that he be the only one to take Molly to physiotherapy. He didn't mean to pry but couldn't help but worry and hope they would let him in on the whole thing, should they need further assistance. Whatever it was, the shared secret had created a thread of connection between the two, who were constantly surrounded by an aura of mutuality John couldn't fully place. He began to feel like an interloper when the three of them were together in a room, so he took to letting them to their own devices as often he could.

While they were out on cases, Sherlock never mentioned Molly and acted as if there had been no change. At home, he also stopped bringing her tea and food, as soon as she was steadier on her feet. The one time John and Mrs. Hudson had tried to do it instead, Sherlock had yelled at them that they were coddling Molly, who had sheepishly taken his side, and when the dust had settled, John had found himself apologizing to her, while their landlady had been running down the stairs. That had clenched it. There was definitely something going on with those two.

# # #

Molly padded across John and Sherlock's empty sitting room to the kitchen. The table there looked half like a contemporary mad scientist lab, while the other half as covered in scratches, cuts and suspiciously-coloured stains. She opened the fridge and was regaled with the view of a human tongue in a jar, featured prominently among items of food. It was almost as if she were back in medical school. At least, she knew where the body parts Sherlock got her to surrender from the mortuary ended up. She wondered how John faired.

She spied a casserole of risotto that smelled safe and heated herself a plate... after cautiously removing the toe she found there. She put the toe back, making a mental note to ask Sherlock what he was working on the next time she saw him, set up the kettle to make herself tea, and while it boiled, she took her now warm rice back to the bedroom.

Her second week at 221B neared its end and as the symptoms of the Oxycodone withdrawal faded, she was beginning to get stronger again. Her muscles were still somewhat sore and she suffered from the occasional bout of anxiety, but that could also be attributed to the flashbacks, which had made a recent comeback. The insomnia of the first days at Baker Street had let up, too, but that was a mixed blessing, since her dreams had returned as well. She could remember them a bit better in the morning and now she wished she didn't, because they were all some sort a variation of her attack.

Sherlock had her take brief walks, each time he took her to see her therapist, and that seemed to strengthen her too. Molly could have been immensely grateful to him for that alone. She was finished with physiotherapy, but her psychologist still worked from Bart's and the mere proximity to her place of employment sent shudders up her spine. She tried very hard not to think about going back to work in the morgue. She had enough problems, as it were. She would cross that bridge, when she got there.

She had her final stitches removed that week and her cardiologist was very pleased with the way her left ventricle had recovered from the trauma. A CAT Scan the same day had found no evidence of an aneurysm and overall, she could feel confident there would be no additional complications resulting from her ordeal. It was still too soon to discuss scar reduction and until then she saw no reason to contemplate their existence, even though they reminded her that they were there with the tightness in her torso her every move evoked.

# # #

"Could you pass my laptop?"

The question travelled to her in Sherlock's voice and muffled by the walls from the sitting room, where he presumably was at the moment. She knew John had left hours ago so the inquiry could only be addressed to her. Since it weren't as if she was invalided and was actually feeling much better in the past few days, she set aside her Kindle with the half read Book 5 of _The Janna Mysteries_ and got out of bed. On her way to the door, she wrapped herself in her fluffy bathroom, just in case a new case of chills assaulted her.

Despite it being in the middle of the afternoon, Sherlock was still wearing pyjamas and a robe, which hung so carelessly on him, that it had all but slid off his shoulders. He was sitting on the couch that had become his bed since she had move in. Said makeshift bed was currently unmade to the point where one pillow had fallen to the floor. Papers, opened books and what looked like results of several chemical experiments contained in closed lab jars covered both the small table in front of him and the floor around it. Molly felt yet another pang at the thought of kicking him out of his bedroom.

She looked around the sitting room and the kitchen but found no laptop. "Where is it?" she finally asked coming to stand before him, when he would pay no attention to her presence.

He looked up at her then visibly startled. "Molly?"

"Yes, I've been living here for the past three weeks," she said just in case.

He made a small dismissive gesture with his hand. "Oh, I know. But I was speaking to John."

"John left before lunch, Sherlock," she explained patiently. "He and Mary are taking a trip to Kent. He won't be back until Wednesday. He told you that much yesterday evening and twice today over breakfast. Now you asked me to pass your laptop, but I can't find it. Any idea where you might have left it?"

"I didn't ask you, I asked John," he said tiredly.

"Yes, but John isn't here. I am." She placed additional emphasis on the last sentence. He offered no reaction to that, just rested his elbows on his knees, raising his steepled hands to his chin. The red sleeve of his robe slid back on his right arm, revealing two nicotine patches. "Never mind. I'll just go and look for it some more on my own."

"Go back to bed," he commanded as soon as she had turned her back to him.

She looked at him over her shoulder. He was assessing her sternly. She was about to say something to the sentiment that she had been well enough to wander around for a while now, when inspiration struck. She sauntered to the pillow that was on the floor, lifted it and surely enough there it was. She triumphantly presented him with the newly recovered device. His lips twitched in what might have been misconstrued as a small smile. She answered with a grin of her own.

"New case?" as she asked as he took the laptop from her hands.

"If you insist on strolling about, Molly, at least put on some proper clothes. It's four in the after-noon."

Molly pointedly cleared her throat. He refused to take the hint.

# # #

Sherlock was standing by his bedroom window, fiddling with his violin, not quite turned away from her but not facing her either. Curled on her side, Molly was gazing at him unabashedly. She figured that after he had seen her vomit in his own bathroom and throw fits of hysteria, she was past being shy about her adoration. And he was very easy to adore. The sickly grey light of yet another miserable London afternoon filtered through the glass, palely illuminating his alabaster profile with its perfectly sculptured lines. He had the hieratic beauty of the Byzantine paintings she had once seen in the British Museum. She admired the refined curve of his dark brow over eyes, the colour of which she could never decide on. Right now the blue in them was darker and vaguely infused with silver.

A creased marred the lower part of his forehead, as he seemed lost in thought. The corners of his mouth pulled back slightly when he did that. She had first noticed it on one of the many occasions, when he had been staying at her flat, while the entire thought him dead. It made the lovely heart-shape of his upper lip even more pronounced. Molly had 35 stare at her from not too far ahead, yet she was sure that were Sherlock to kiss her, she would faint.

Her eyes swept up to his dark curls and she thought of that formidable mind pulsing underneath. She remembered his telling her of how it could torture him. A fresh streak of admiration surged through her for the inner strength of this man, who managed to tame his rebellious intellect and order it in the well-honed complex mental aggregate that allowed him to see thought everyone and everything. She had never met anyone like him with an intelligence so alive, so scintillating and yet so restrained.

A long, slim finger stroked the bow across the violin strings that elicited a sound only bordering on musical. His fingers had held her with such care that the memory, strikingly clear in her recollection, burned. Sherlock cared. She had always intuited that he did, but the revelation of the full extent of it had been jarring. She couldn't imagine how he held it all in: maddening brilliance and the endless propensity for feeling, which, she knew from experience, could be even more devastating. No wonder he tried to suppress at least the latter. Let to roam free, the intensity of both sentiment and intellect could shatter him.

The meagre defences she had put up against her feelings for him burst open and she felt inundated by her tenderness for him. How could she have ever thought she would get over him? Sherlock Holmes wasn't born to be forgotten. And how could anyone who had ever met him blame her for how her once minor crush had spiralled out of control? All right, so anyone who had met Sherlock could and did in fact blame her, but she loved him and that was that.

"My therapist thinks I should join a support group," she found herself breaking the silence only to wonder why she always felt this incessant need to speak and throw a wrench even into the most comforting of silences.

"Hmm... dull," he said.

"I don't know..." she continued. His brow lifted about a quarter of an inch. "... if I did stage my accident that day to get more Oxycodone. The more I think of it, the less I seem to remember. You were right: I was too drowsy to know what I was doing."

He made a small gesture with the bow as if to state that it had been obvious. Molly supposed she should be ashamed at the depth of her irresponsibility. A doctor, especially one who was a forensic pathologist having performed autopsies where the cause of death had been drug overdose, should have known better. But instead she felt comfortable talking to him.

"I didn't do it on purpose," she admitted. "Or at least, I don't think I did. It's just that while I was on them, I had no flashbacks and... it all seemed so hazy and far away. So I kept taking them."

He gave the tiniest of nods and then silence descended between them once more.

"Do you mind if I play?"

"No," she said quickly, excitement bubbling inside of her. She shifted to get a better position under the covers. "Not at all. I'd love to hear you play."

"Do you have a preference?"

Molly hesitated. She had a few Romantic operas she enjoyed and she appreciated the occasional ballet, but she was far from a classical music aficionado. "No," she replied. "Play whatever you feel like."

His eyes slid closed, as he inclined his head and positioned the instrument under his chin. The bow caressed the strings and delicate, melancholic strands of a piece Molly was unfamiliar with filled the space between them at the contact. She shut her eyes too, listening intently. There appeared to be a nearly physical quality to the music spinning into a connection of sound between them. One of her hands drifted on the sheet and to the edge of the bed as if of its own will, trying to reach for him. The violin picked up, the rhythm becoming more alert. Her eyes flew open. She wondered how she could have, even in the pit of desperation, think she would lose his trust and respect. It was all so clear to her now: the change was in the opposite direction. Something excruciatingly intimate was taking place between them, a deepening of sorts. She might have been the first to establish the link, but she was no longer alone in it.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: many thanks to all my readers and reviewers! Your interest keep the muse happy!

The boy could not have been older than twelve. He was cyanotic so he had suffocated to death. He was lying on the dirty floor of a derelict building on the outskirts of London with his clothes in dis-ray. According to Lestrade, his parents had reported him missing four days ago. There had been a televised appeal. To no avail. Said parents also didn't know yet. They would be called at the morgue to identify the body and then caught in the whirl of funeral planning, pouring condolences from all over the country, investigation, trial and when the matter was forgotten, left alone with the grief and memories turned sour. In short, a much more dramatic version of what had happened to Molly.

Molly, who had barely made it, only to be trapped in the loop of post-traumatic stress disorder, scarred both physically and emotionally, closely dodging an addiction to painkillers and ineffectually trying to cover for the fact that she was terrified of going back to a work she used to love. Molly sobbing in his arms, begging him not to look at the site of her wounds. Molly burning up with fever. Ashen-looking Molly with her distant, lost gaze. Molly sleeping only a wall away, whimpering at night through her nightmares. Molly asking about his experiments and volunteering help. Molly listening to him play. Molly who was steadily gaining colour in her eyes and started to move about freely.

For the first time since he invented his job, Sherlock found himself staring at a crime scene with no idea as to what had occurred buzzing through his mind. He blinked furiously to shake himself out of whatever reverie had taken over him. His brain slammed into action with a speed that bordered on pain-inducing. He winced and fist deduced himself. It was Molly's attack. That enigma hadn't ended after the few days he needed to solve it. It had languished slowly through Molly's murky convalesce, following him wherever he went, until he made the fatal mistake of bringing it home. He had never truly closed that one, because it hadn't been about the thrill of the puzzle. It had been and still was all about her. And it was chipping at his focus with each turn, putting a dent into his work, making him see victims at crime scenes instead of dead bodies, patterns and scrapes of information.

Lestrade was speaking to him but he couldn't make the words. He turned to face the Detective-Inspector and from the corner of his eye saw John look at him with concern. The doctor had seen him slip.

"Well, give me a minute," he told Lestrade irritably before stepping closer to the dead body.

Sentiment. That blasted chemical defect had wrapped its venomous tendrils around his brain, seeding disorder, spreading through him like a mortal disease. He couldn't think. His observation skills were slacking. And all he could focus on right now were the victim's parents. As if that had any impact on figuring out the mystery. He had to rid himself of it. He could not take on any new cases, until he shut the that open one – the anomaly.

# # #

Sherlock sent John on an invented but plausible errand to the Scotland Yard, while he claimed that he had something to check with his homeless network. Instead he headed straight home. Molly was in the kitchen, dressed in trousers and a long-sleeved T-shirt, baking something. He gave her a rapid once-over. She looked healthy enough to be on her own and any half decent house guest would have understood they had overstayed their welcome by now.

She smiled brightly at him. "Hi! I know you don't eat when you work, but I thought John and Mrs. Hudson would appreciate some marmalade muffins."

"If you're well enough to bake, Molly, then you must be well enough to do so from your own flat," he said, infusing in his voice as much severity he could muster. Her face fell, but he wouldn't let her affected mimic deter him. "I have take you in only for the duration of your detox, but we both know that is over now and I would like to retain the use of my bedroom."

"Of course," she said weakly. "I was planning to leave soon, anyway. I just wanted to wait for you and John to be finished with this case... you know, to have a proper goodbye."

He scowled. "I cannot be finished with my current case with you and your domesticity putting me off in my own flat," he spat with a sneer, casting a disdainful look to the array of baking utensils he didn't even know he had tucked in a corner of the kitchen table unoccupied by his experimenting equipment. "I'm surprised you didn't start to paint anything pink yet."

"I'm sorry..." she said, taking at the bowl of dough off the table. "I'll clean this up right away."

"And then feel free to leave. I'd like to have where to think, when I return home."

Without waiting for a reply, he whirled on a heel and stalked towards the exit, his coat fanning his every step.

# # #

It hurt. There was no denying that it did. But after everything she had been through physically, she could take a bit of heart-ache. Besides, it wasn't like she didn't understand why he did it. The thin threads spurning between them ever since the dramatic day of his fall had become impossible to ignore in their close proximity and while sharing the secret of her addiction and subsequent detox. Instead, they had knitted into a full-blown bond. It was probably the first of the kind he ever had, not that her own experience with relationships was much more extensive. She, too, was finding her feet, too, with what they had. What made truly easy for her was that she had already made up her mind about him. She knew where she stood.

Things had to be much harder for him. Molly had initially refused to entertain the possibility of a set-back in their budding connection, but deep down inside, a part of her had always known their new-found intimacy would blow up in her face in some way. She had only hoped the consequences would be milder. But he needed time to process so she would give it to him and then respect whatever decision he made. And he was right: she was better. It was her second month out of the hospital and it showed. In aftermath of her dealings with Oxycodone, she would have to watch out for opioids for the rest of her life, but at least, it had ended there. Overall, she was ready to be on her own again. Her psychologist had told her to give herself time, when it came to her post-traumatic stress disorder and its persistent symptoms. Molly would join a support group and do just that.

It had been nearly a month since she was living in Baker Street and she was keenly aware of the fact that she wouldn't have made it so far without his sometimes unorthodox, yet unwavering support. Whatever the future held for her, she would be forever grateful to him for that. She leaned on the edge of the kitchen table looking fondly at the vestiges of his experiments taking over half of it. She had no doubt she would not see him for a while or if she did, he would pretend she didn't exist. The pang was particularly sharp. She had grown so accustomed to his nearness.

Steeling herself, she switched off the oven, put the remaining muffin dough in the freezer and packed the already baked batch together with a thank-you note for John. Sherlock was probably in no mood to read anything from her so she forwent him. Then she moved into Sherlock's bedroom to get her bag ready to go. She made quick work of it, not wanting to linger in case he had to come back for something or the other. He would not be happy to find her still in his space.

Before she went, she stole one more look of the sitting room, saw his violin by the window and with it came the memories of his playing it, while she listened. Swallowing past the suffocating lung in her throat, she dropped her bag to the floor and strode closer to the instrument. She placed her fingers above the strings, not daring to touch. She had never been able to play anything in her life and knew next to nothing of string instruments, but this one looked so beautiful, truly right for its exceptional owner. She felt like crying but wouldn't let herself. She had survived being stabbed in the heart in the most literal sense of those words. She could take this.

Saying goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, whom she found in front of the telly, was hard. The elder woman took one look at face and then at her bag and her expression crumpled into a stricken one.

"Oh, my dear," she said mournfully. "What did he do?"

Molly forced herself to smile. "Nothing, Mrs. Hudson. It was time for me to go already. As you can see, I am much better now. I just wanted to tell you thank you for everything."

Mrs. Hudson was on her feet and hugging her before she was done with her last sentence. Molly rested her cheek on her shoulder and took the comfort.

"Don't mind him, Molly. You come and visit as often as you'd like," Mrs. Hudson encouraged with a soft smile, when they finally broke apart.

"You too, Mrs. Hudson. Toby would love to meet you."

"And I him, but until then you're staying for a plate of Cabbie claw."

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Hudson was quicker. "This is my house, dear, and he has no say in who comes and who stays for lunch."

# # #

Molly stared at herself in the long mirror she normally kept behind her closet. On the surface she looked her old self. Her hair was strapped in a tight ponytail and she was wearing her favourite trousers, a pair of dark brown chinos, and a dusty blue cardigan decorated with huge, red roses. She didn't love the latter as much as the white one with cherries, but this one had looked more festive for some reason. The cardigan was buttoned all the way. She didn't want to take the risk of the upper part of her heart scar being seen. She pressed a hand to the soft material covering her chest. They were hidden there, every one of them, less gnarled now, but still red and bespeaking of deep wounds.

She wanted to look cheery on her first day back to work. Especially since she felt anything but. In fact, it was almost as if she were back to the dark days of her Oxycodone detoxification. Her head swam to the point of dizziness, her muscles were uncomfortably rigid and she was fighting off bouts of nausea that had not had let her stomach any breakfast. She had twice almost rang to tell them she was not coming, after all.

Work and before it, school, had been the only part of her life that had always functioned without a glitch. Work was easy. All she had to do to make it was put in a lot of effort, develop a reasonable professional attitude and not be bothered much by the failures along the way. While working she never stammered and she always knew what to say, because she never stopped until she had the right answer. She could always keep her head high and she never wavered. Nothing else mattered but identifying the correct cause of death, giving the police the leads they needed and the families closure or finding the right disease affecting the tissue sample she had under the microscope at any given time.

Work was comfortable. Work had given her Meena. Work had brought about her meeting Sherlock. Work never failed to reward her investing in it. Work was hers. She revelled in it. She was not going to let an anonymous assassin with a knife take it from her and drive her out of the morgue of St. Bart's, a place she had spent years struggling to get in. Taking heart from that, she briefly scratched Toby behind his ears as a form of goodbye, grabbed her parka and bag and left.

# # #

The first day turned out easier than she had anticipated. Her colleagues at the mortuary and the pathology lab seemed genuinely happy to have her back and kept asking her solicitous and friendly questions. They had even prepared a cake for the occasion and they all chatted around a cup of tea before work scattered them to their duties. Everyone went easy on her and she had mostly paperwork to to along with some lightweight lab analysis. Through it all, Meena had been a constant, supporting shadow at her back and Molly rewarded her with as many grateful smiled as she could muster.

But the day still exhausted her in the end and after her evening shower, she felt into bed completely depleted, sleeping for the entire night for the first time in weeks. She had had no nightmares that she could remember and upon waking up truly refreshed in the morning, she was actually glad to be back to work and a recognizable routine. Her last free days, spent cooked up in her flat and dreading the inevitable return to Bart's, had been unbearable, anyway.

Her second day at the hospital was a disaster. A clinical post mortem awaited her scalpel and she had to set foot into the mortuary. There was no avoiding it any-more and no amount of deep breaths seemed to help. Clawing at every remembered word of the many therapy sessions aimed at readying her for this, she forced herself to walk through the morgue doors. The technician pulled out the corpse and she just froze, eyes glued to the table by which it had happened. A potent wave of fear swept through her, sending her heart into overdrive, at the sense memory of the blade slashing into her. She ran out, while she could still move, and went to pant in peace locked in a toilet stall. She also had a cry while there.

When she felt more in control of herself, she vigorously washed her face with cold water and returned, a flimsy excuse for the technician already on her mind. She had an unclear cause of death to elucidate. Her hands shook when she pushed the morgue doors open for a second time but were steady as she opened the file that had come with the body. They stayed that way, as she scrubbed and dressed for the procedure. And when the scalpel cut through skin and muscle, parting the flesh, her mind did not stray from the 37-years old Caucasian woman, who had died of a combinations of symptoms suspected of pertaining to an undiagnosed neurological condition. And her hand didn't tremble again.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

He could not erase her. Sending her away had not helped. With the case of the 12-years old murdered boy solved, he had rushed back to Baker Street, dodging John's questions about Molly's absence and Mrs. Hudson reproachful gaze and set to meticulously clear his space of any evidence of her. He scrubbed his bedroom clean, aired it and washed everything she had ever touched. He threw away the baking utensils, but John wouldn't let him do the same with the muffins she had left behind, pestering him with inquiries as to what he had supposedly done to make Molly leave. Apparently, she was also not very forthcoming with the answers, either, since she insisted it had been her decision, when John rang to check up on her.

But his senses betrayed him. Every now and then he still caught a whiff of that hint of honey in her shampoo or thought he saw a long, brown hair on his pillows. His brain chemistry was in utter dis-ray and evaded all his struggles to right it. His infallible senses would not obey him in the safety of his own home. They hadn't been this shaky since his experience with the mind-altering gas on the outskirts of the Baskerville military base. He wasn't drugged now and his senses continued to be as sharp as ever on cases.

He had rebuilt the walls protecting his intellect from the pitfalls of sentiment, carefully resetting the distances allowing him to divorce himself from it in order to observe impartially and make calculated deductions. He tested their strength on cases and found them as impenetrable as ever, his mind focused as always only on the details that mattered rather than on unimportant trivia such as what the victims had gone through in their final moments or what their loved ones would feel once they knew what they had lost. Caring didn't solve cases; cold, shrewd intellect and impeccable senses did.

Yet she was still there, her imagine floating just beneath the surface of his mind, bursting free at awkward moments in his own flat. He couldn't banish her to a well-detailed memory tucked in a corner of his brain, where he could fondly visit upon will, but from where it could never escape to needlessly bother him. He had done it before with Irene Adler. The Woman was safe somewhere in the world and preserved in a chamber of his mind palace, from where her remembrance could never again disturb the peace of his intellect. If the same couldn't be done for Molly, then he was left with only one option: delete her entirely and then avoid further contact. Realistically he knew that was not a good investment, since it cost him his easy access to St. Bart's morgue, but it was still a relatively minor price to pay for ridding his mind of the devastating effects of chemistry gone awry. He could always cultivate a connection to some other morgue in London. The clarity of his sense and the good functioning of his mind took priority over everything else.

The problem was it didn't work. No matter how many times he went to his memory palace searching for Molly and trying to eradicate her, their shared time refused to go away. It had quite the opposite effect, in fact, as to his horror he found himself lingering in these memories, comforted by her solar presence in his mind. He remembered meeting her for the first time the year before John had moved in with him in Baker Street. Mike Stamford had introduced him to St. Bartholomew's newest consultant pathologist. She had made a terrible joke about the both of them being consultants, as she had held her hand out to him with wide, hopeful eyes. Sherlock had shook the proffered limb briefly, his glance on her telling him everything he would want to know with such ease it was ridiculous even by his standards.

Molly Hooper was an open book. Aside from that, back then she had been barely 30, single and leading a solitary life style, originally from Northampton, work-oriented with ambitions in forensic medicine, state school, Queen Mary alumnus, not one graduation without honours, general training in histopathology, socially awkward, yet aiming at making the others around her like her, in the process of moving to a new flat, most likely for convenience's sake, since her current had to be too far away from her new place of employment, cat person currently looking for a pet in dedicated shops, not very fashion conscious, practical and reasonable in that aspect as she undoubtedly was in any other of her existence, oddly fond of the colour pink, equally questionable tastes in entertainment choices.

In the months that had followed, he had made two discoveries: Molly Hooper was more competent in her field than even he had anticipated and she had an unusual weakness for him. All her colleagues, including Mike at times, questioned his presence on what they saw as their turf and went out of their ways to refuse his requests and undermine the tacit understanding he had with the hospital management. Not Molly. All he had to do was flash her a smile and she would cater to all of his wishes, even those going beyond his pact with the higher-ups at Bart's. And she always did the necessary paperwork to cover for him in these last instances. It had been most convenient to have such a reliable pathology expert practically on call and that had sped up many of his investigations. Before he had known it, the two of them had established an easy pattern, one that had come back to haunt him now.

One day he made a break-through in the region of his memories pertaining to the staging of his would-be suicide. He discovered he felt guilty for not properly repaying her for her help back then. Molly had never turned him down, when he had showed up on her doorstep, sometimes battered and bloodied, during his time in hiding, despite the fact, never acknowledged them between yet clear as daylight, that he was putting her at considerable risk. Yet he had thrown her out of his flat with just a few cruel words, while she was still in recovery and the danger to his immediate, physical safety was non-existent. That had been... less than good. Even he could tell. But what was done was done.

To top it all, Molly's stabbing seemed to have endlessly endeared her to the hearts of all those around him. Mrs. Hudson had been bizarrely hostile to him after Molly's departure, going as far as to refuse to do any of his housework for weeks after that and lamented to all who would listen that the pathologist wouldn't come to visit her because of him. John was downright insufferable about the whole affair, despite missing the particulars, and his girlfriend was even worse. She had made friends with Molly of all people. Whenever Mary dropped by the flat, she went on and on about her lunches and teatimes with other woman, about how nice yet quirky she was and what a cute cat she had. Sherlock had never liked Mary Morstan less. From what he had noticed, she was fairly social and already had several friends. Why John's paramour needed one more was beyond him.

# # #

All John Watson wanted was to sleep. An hour or two would do. A meal would be desirable as well, but that could wait until he got some much-needed rest. He and Sherlock had been up for fifty-six hours straight chasing after a Kensington heiress and as it had turned out, her poodle, too. On their way to finding the 19-years old bored with her luxurious lifestyle, they had come across Russian mobsters and a handful of very determined hit-men of no known nationality. Once the runaway was back safe in the arms of her clueless, but well-meaning parents, whom Sherlock had insulted at every turn of the case, including when promised any future favour he could want as a token of their appreciation.

They had barely cracked open the door of their shared flat, when Lestrade rang. It was four in the morning. Sherlock turned on a heel and John found himself following more out of habit than anything else. Either way he doubted he could summon enough still functioning brain cells to formulate a counter-proposal. The body of a man in his late 20s dressed in a bespoke suit had been discovered in the undercroft at the South Banks of the Thames. No visible wounds or bruises, no apparent cause of death, no ID on the remarkably well preserved corpse. Things went as well as it was to be expected. Anderson opened his mouth to say something, Sherlock snubbed him and since he was already on a roll, he casually called the pathologist on scene, a Dr. Daniel Sinclair, an idiot for not noticing the body had been frozen prior to being dumped and that the cause of death was exsanguination. He also predicted they would find that the blood had been drawn out from the femoral artery and that was why he had been redressed after death. Of course, he had been redressed, did nobody really see the clumsy way the buttons were done, as if someone had struggled to do it on the immobile body?

The good doctor, new to the Scotland Yard, as he had just transferred from Manchester, an information that had come from Sherlock rather than the man himself, would not be intimidated. He even dared declare he did not care who Sherlock was and refused to further speculate on either time or cause of death until after the post mortem. He also promised the Consultant Detective to do everything in his power to delay his access to the official report of said procedure. Just for the principle of it. Sherlock apparently decided to make the situation worse by calling him a moron and stating that he didn't have the time to wait out the twelve hours a forensic autopsy normally took. John suspected it was more of a case of lack of patience rather than time but wisely kept his tongue. Lestrade tried to break up the argument and Sherlock insulted him, too, for his trouble.

Finally Sherlock decided to tag along with the body to St. Bart's morgue because he wanted to examine the dead bloke's shocks, which didn't match his suit, something that the Detective found suspicious. And was the only one to remark. As they left, Sally Donovan asked him how long he thought he had until he snapped and killed Sherlock in a highly anticipated fit of rage. John didn't verbalise any answer, but he estimated it would be any moment now.

# # #

John blamed it on the sleep-deprivation, but they were already inside the mortuary at Bart's, when it occurred to him that things could only go downhill from here. After all, his flatmate had been avoiding the place like the plague recently. As if on cue, the new pathologist formulated the most damning question he could possibly ask the young technician waiting for him there:

"Do you know if a Dr. M. Hooper is in today? If he is, could you please tell him a new-comer from the Met would appreciate his input on a post mortem?"

The tech smiled at Dr. Sinclair's mistake. "That's Dr. Molly Hooper. She was on the night shift and she's still working on something in the lab. I'll go and fetch her."

Currently bent over the corpse's feet, Sherlock was very meticulously scraping a sample off the socks, a frown that could be well attributed to concentration marring his face, which gave away little else. Dr. Sinclair couldn't stop him from doing it, because Lestrade had delicately warned him not to, but he clearly disliked the very idea of it. John couldn't fault him for it. Overly cautious or not, the man was just doing his job and Sherlock had been the one to provoke him to begin with.

Molly breezed in a moment later, looking tired, but healthy. She had always been a little pale, after all. She was dressed in her typical bright colours under the white lab coat and treated everyone to her best cheerful smile. She also waved at him and Sherlock.

"Hi," she said enthusiastically. John waved back glad to see her so well.

"I'm Dr. M. Hooper," she told the new-comer.

Dr. Sinclair looked a bit star-struck at that, which was no surprise. When one thought pathologist, they usually didn't picture someone like Molly.

"Dr. Molly Hooper, right?" Dr. Sinclair tried. He stammered, too."I'm sorry... I read your study on unidentified decedents in recent Barts' history in the Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine last year and I thought... if you can spare the time, of course, I could use your eye on this."

"I can never say no a good autopsy, Dr. …."

"Oh... Daniel Sinclair. Transfer from Manchester. I just started with the Met. Sorry for that."

Molly held out her hand. "Nice to meet you. And don't worry, if we had any social skills, we wouldn't be pathologists." The moment the words left her mouth, her eyes widened and her face dropped in a helpless expression. "Sorry, sorry..." she mumbled, looking sheepish.

"I told you not to make jokes, Molly," Sherlock interjected dryly. He had his sample and they should be on their way to the lab by now, but for some reason they weren't moving. John wanted to but couldn't bring himself to. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion – equal parts terrifying and fascinating.

Dr. Sinclair was unfazed by Molly's faux pas. He continued to smile and assured her he ended up with his foot in his mouth all the time, too.

"Obviously," Sherlock snorted. John shot him a desperate look, not knowing if he was pleading that his friend stopped talking or that they left already.

"Would you like a coffee before we start?" Molly asked Sinclair in a voice that sounded far too

chipper.

That seemed to get Sherlock going, because no sooner had Molly finished speaking that he spun around and dashed out of the door so quickly that John barely had the time to note it and hurry after him.

"I don't want to put you out," he heard Sinclair politely tell Molly.

John sighed. That was precisely what happened when you neglected and berated even the most besotted woman long enough. Before you knew it, she was offering someone else coffee in the morgue that you two used to have in common.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

_| If Greg didn't tell you yet, you were right: cause of death was exsanguination caused by a wound similar to endarterectomy. No blood on the body. The incision was stitched post-mortem. Killer with extensive medical knowledge. No foreign DNA. No defensive wounds. Standard toxicology tests in progress. Was frozen for a month. Maybe more. |_

_| Daniel told me of your row. I think you were unfair to him. |_

_|Say hi to John for me. Please.|_

_| Hi to you too. :) |_

"Molly," she heard Dr. Sinclair call for her. She had her mobile keyboard blocked and slipped the device in one of her trousers pockets.

Molly forced herself to give him a grin, despite her tiredness making her eye feel gritty and her lips nearly raw at the stretch. Her effort was not in vain. He smiled back.

"I wanted to thank you for taking the time to help me with this. I enjoyed working with you very much," he told her.

"Me too, Daniel," she replied earnestly. He was a good pathologist, very meticulous and laid back in his approach, not at all prone to speculations. She had always appreciated that.

He cocked his head to the side studying her carefully. "Listen, I know you've been here all night and I kept you over with my autopsy so now isn't the time, but some other day, when you're free, maybe we can have coffee together... in a place with no corpses, I mean," he added with a lopsided smile, his eyes suddenly finding his own shoes very interesting.

Molly's teeth worried at her lower lip before briefly drawing it into her mouth. "Daniel... I... I'm... ."

"Taken," he said it for her.

If he only knew how much. "Not exactly," she corrected, while a small voice in the back her mind sounding a lot like Meena broke through her pounding head-ached to admonish her for what she was doing. "I hate to sound like facebook status, but... it really is complicated," she finished lamely.

He scratched the back of his head, still not looking at her face. "Yes, all right, I understand... I don't mean for it to be awkward or anything... I mean, I should've asked that first... ."

Molly shuffled from her weight from one foot to the other. Her mind truly was too murky for such a conversation. She stared at her shoes, too. Her Oxfords needed cleaning. "Erm... it's fine... no awkwardness at all," she assured him.

"That's good. Right. So I'll see you around... in a professional capacity, I mean," he said in one rushed breath.

Molly lifted her gaze and smiled again, which pulled unpleasantly at her cheeks. She was sore all over. She absolutely needed to get home. "Sure," she replied with as much cheer as she could muster. "Bye."

He bid her goodbye too and they parted. On her way to the locker room, she decided to take a taxi to her flat instead of the tube, like she normally would. She felt like sleeping for days and most of all, she wanted to avoid thinking about what she had done. Daniel seemed like a good man and she was nowhere near a relationship with her favourite private detective. Maybe before the month she had spent in Baker Street, she would have jumped at this opportunity, but now it seemed like a betrayal. Meena's voice in her head told her she was being ridiculous. Molly couldn't fully contradict it.

# # #

Sherlock quickly scanned the text messages from Molly before putting his phone back in his coat. "Greg" hadn't told him yet, because there hadn't been enough time for the Detective-Inspector to receive the autopsy report. Molly and that new doctor were obviously just finished. He had felt John's gaze on him all the time he had been looking at his mobile.

"Who was that?" his flatmate wanted to know.

"Molly with the autopsy results. I was right about everything."

"Of course you were," John quipped before yawning dramatically. He had been complaining for hours about his lack of sleep.

Sherlock ignored him and turned his head to look out the cab window. They were just returning from speaking with his homeless contacts at the South Banks. Oddly enough, nobody had seen anything. Sherlock felt positively exuberant. This one had true potential. He already had Lestrade check for similar murders in the greater London area. Even if he came up empty-handed, Sherlock knew this was the work of a serial killer. Odds were this was the very first victim, kept on ice to give the police a false time-line. Either way, it was someone methodical, very careful and best of all, difficult to catch. He would need to wait for the proverbial mistake. The game was afoot once more. But first of all, how had he put under his victims?

He hadn't been able to identify all the elements in the odd substance found on the dead man's socks with the means at his disposal at Bart's, nor did he know yet why the killer had changed them. Maybe he already had the mistake. Maybe the killer had stained the original socks with something he couldn't afford to have the police discover. Either way, that was speculation based on insufficient facts and better left unexplored for the moment. What he had managed to find was organic residue belonging to Strychnos toxifera, South-American plant some native tribes used to produce poison for their arrows. Dosed properly, it could also function as an anesthetic. It wouldn't be in the standard blood test battery, though. Jubilant over the discovery, he texted Molly:

| _Test also for Curare obtained from Strychnos toxifera._ |

"I take it you're not texting to thank her," John tried.

Sherlock shot him a look designed to fully encapsulate his disdain at the suggestion.

# # #

Molly sat on the narrow bench in the locker room with a heavy sigh. She had had an arm in her parka, when she received the text from Sherlock. Resting her elbows on her knees, she buried her face in her hands. The pressure on the left side of her torso was uncomfortable enough to be suspicious. She knew what the reasonable thing to do was but she had already decided she would later blame her bad decision on her exhaustion. Pressing her finger pads to her closes eyes, she took advantage of the empty chamber for a few seconds more. Then she got to her feet and shrugged out of coat. She needed to find a vending machine with Red Bull in it, before she returned to the lab, and while she was on an energizer hunt, she had to figure out just how much pressure she could put on her colleagues to get the toxicology report on the still unidentified body as soon as possible. Or maybe she could go the easy route and help with them.

On the bright side a killer, the thought of whom made her blood run cold, would be off the streets.

# # #

To Sherlock's great annoyance, the leads he had given the police had only served to help them identify the victim: a successful City boy. No other similar murders had taken place in recent British history and no other physical evidence had been found. Toxicology confirmed he had correctly identified the anaesthetic, but was hardly a surprise. He would have wait for him to kill again. Meanwhile he took other cases, but none that original. To make matters worse, John had posted another _Sherlock Holmes Baffled_ article on his blog. The Detective used the first chance he got afterwards to deduce Mary, which had degenerated into a full-blown quarrel, the doctor refusing to speak to him for days in the aftermath. His flatmate was truly serious about this relationship, it seemed.

Another body, in the same condition as the first, was found in North London this time, two weeks later. Sherlock could almost be happy. Unfortunately the pathologist on scene was still Dr. Sinclair.

# # #

Molly looked up from her microscope and frowned. "Daniel? What happened?"

# # #

Molly burst through the mortuary doors feeling no trepidation for the first time since her return to work. Apparently, her receding PTSD drew a line at blinding anger. A remnant of her sanity warned her about the professionalism of throwing a fit in the morgue of one of the country's most prominent hospitals, but Daniel's face as he had come to her for advice as to how to deal with Sherlock Holmes had broken her heart. Sherlock had also exploited her without mercy and terrorized the lab staff incessantly for the past two weeks. And she was tired, sick and tired of everything.

"Have you nothing sacred?" she yelled at the Consultant Detective, who was in the process of examining the body on the slab. Greg and John, who were also there, stared at her in shock. She couldn't care less.

Sherlock gracefully straightened himself up and for some reason that only inflamed her ire further.

"Don't answer that," she snapped.

"Ah, Molly, you came to vindicate your boyfriend's delicate sensibilities," he said infuriatingly calm, his eyes two chips of bright blue ice, sweeping over her appraisingly.

Apparently the seeing red part could happen more than just metaphorically. "My... what?" Her hand was up and violently colliding with his right cheek before she even realised what she was doing. Pain sliced through her hand. What were those cheekbones made of? Steel?

"Oh my God!" she heard Lestrade cry out.

"Holy Mary!" John echoed.

Sherlock was blinking in disbelief. Molly stared at her smarting palm in horror. She had never before in her entire life slapped anyone. She was the one for reacting by running away in tears not by resorting to physical violence. Desolation washed over her in suffocating waves. She couldn't believe how far removed from her recognizable self she had become. Her eyes travelled back to Sherlock.

"I can't do this any-more," she muttered. With that she spun on a heel and ran out.

# # #

"You were waiting for me," he stated, as he closed the door to the storage locker in his cue. "Why would you pick exactly this one otherwise?"

She knew what he meant. It was where he had hit while waiting for the commotion of his alleged death to calm down enough for him to safely slip out of the hospital.

"There's a limit to how immature I can act in the work place... even for me."

"Only Lestrade and John saw what happened," he said mildly while coming to sit next to her on a box of medical furniture. "They might gossip about me, but they'd both respect your privacy."

She looked away. "Sherlock, I'm not dating Daniel Sinclair and not because he didn't ask, but because I thought something had happened between us while I was staying with you and I wanted to give you time to process it." She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the pads of her palms to her throbbing temples. "At least, that was the plan... initially. Look, it's not your fault I feel the way I do about you and I never meant... ." She drew her hands to cover her face. "I don't even know... . The point is it's gone too far." She dropped her hands in her lap and looked at him. There was a faint pink shade on the right side of his face. Regret at her momentary loss of control tugged at her. "Please understand that I need space to... I need to try and forget..."

He stared at her in utter surprise. "You're leaving."

She nodded and got up. "I'll start looking for a transfer immediately. Preferably out of London."

"Molly," he began, reaching to wrap his fingers around her wrist, his thumb on her pulse.

Her legs threatened to collapse from under her. He wasn't playing fair and it was already so hard. "It's my final decision, Sherlock."

"Taken in a moment of hysteria," he retorted not letting go of her.

She glared at him feeling her hackles rise again from somewhere deep beneath the sea of sadness inundating her. "Sherlock, you humiliated a good pathologist twice at a crime scene and today you brought up his dead wife and child in front of how many coppers? I don't care how long ago it happened. You don't get over something like this. And you did it all because of some petty jealousy over my undivided attention, which we both know you don't really want, not to mention need." Her wrist slipped free of his fingers. "It's all just too much," she admitted and then told herself to move.

"I can't," he said in a hesitant voice, when she was at the door.

She rested her forehead against the cold metal. "I know. Don't you think that I do?!"

"I'll apologise," he promised. "Please... Molly... ."

She turned her head to look at him through a veil of tears. "It hurts," she whispered.

He jumped to his feet and slid closer. His warm palms covered her wet cheeks, his thumbs whipping at the tears in the corner of her eyes. Her resolve wavered but she held onto it with all her might, grappling to grab at the door-handle.

"Let me go. It would be better for the both of us," she begged.

"I know." He paused swallowing audibly. "But I don't want to."

He leaned in and pressed a light kiss on her forehead. She released the handle and wrapped her arms around his waist under his coat. His hands moved from her face to gently cradle her neck.

"What are we going to do, Sherlock?"

He shook his head, seemingly as much at a loss as she was.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: I imagine the melody Sherlock wrote for Molly like a solely violin version of _Sad Romance _by Thao Nguyen Xanh: watch?v=U5LPpbuCNTU

# # #

Molly glanced at the newspaper stand on her way out of the tube station and stopped in her tracks, her eyes arrested by the titles:

_Boffin Holmes Does It Again_

_Sources inside the Met say import of exotic plant gave the decisive leads..._

_Thames Vampire Caught after Two Kills_

_Disgraced Surgeon Turns out to Be Serial Killer_

_Bachelor Watson Bachelor No More?_

_Trouble in Baker St. Paradise?_

_Who Is the Mystery Woman with John Watson?_

_Daily Mail Exclusive: Photograph of Confirmed Bachelor Watson and His New Lady Friend_

_Deduce This, Sherlock Holmes! John Watson and Girlfriend Spotted Together at the Cinema_

_Blue-eyed, blond and female. And we thought Dr. Watson preferred them dark-haired and with impressive cheekbones..._

Molly rolled her eyes, feeling a pang of sympathy for Mary, who had been suddenly thrust into the unwanted attention of the tabloids. She started towards the street again. Two young men had been horrifically murdered. It was a good things the newspapers had managed to keep that in perspective and not get derailed by trivia, such a crime blogger taking his girlfriend to see a film.

There was a delivery waiting for her at home and for once it wasn't from . The stationery was too fine for that. Her address was written in Sherlock's surprisingly calligraphic penmanship. That could be, of course, because he had taken calligraphy lessons. She remembered his mentioning of going to Winchester so it was possible. After all, she knew next to nothing about what went on in public schools.

Toby rubbed his body against her ankles, demanding her attention with shrill mewls. Molly ripped the envelope open. She hadn't heard from him in the days after that mortifying public outburst in the morgue. She had already apologised profusely to both John and Greg. They had seemed unconcerned, though, waving off her regret, asking instead if she was fine and being overall more interested to know what that bastard had done. Molly had tried to assure them vaguely that it was more of a case of shared guilt, but they remained sceptical. With a brand new serial killer on the loose in London, she also hadn't wanted to pressure Sherlock, electing to give him the space needed to solve the gruesome case. But now it was over and she had no idea what was next for them.

There was a silvery memory stick in the envelope and no note. Molly's heart sank. That couldn't be good, could it? As if on cue, Toby made a high-pitched lamenting sound drawing her eyes back to him. His golden ones were pleading with her.

"Men," she mumbled. "All right, all right, my personal crisis can wait. Feeding you comes first." She set the stick on her living-room table and moved to the kitchen, coat still on, to peel open a pouch of Whiskas Beef in Gravy. "Message received," she told Toby, who was wolfing down his food, no longer caring for her presence. She sighed. "Story of my life."

She uncapped the memory stick from Sherlock and plugged it in her laptop. It contained a single audio file. Holding her breath, she played it. The tune sounded like no classical piece she knew, which wasn't saying much. It was definitely a violin playing and it was beautiful, poetically so, starting delicate and lyrical, like a musical caress, raising to a thrilling crescendo, before descending again to a sweet, seamless refrain. There was a hint of sadness in the music, but also joy. Half-way through, it sounded truly spell-bounding, like a surreal composition from an alien fantasy land. As if the composer had been striving to describe something that eluded him.

She knew it was him playing and was immensely flatted that he would record this for her, but she also wished she could tell just what this lovely melody was. An idea, insidious and preposterous, began to form in her mind. It couldn't be, could it? It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that someone as talented and brilliant as him composed, but to write a violin tune just for her... . The air was punched out of her lungs and she nearly dropped the laptop from her lap. She grabbed onto the screen to steady it at the very last moment then played the song once more.

Her mind was turning in circles. She had no idea what to do, how to respond. It was unbelievable. This sort of thing did not happen to her. It did not happen to anyone in real life, to be fair. Just because she enjoyed reading romances, it didn't mean she had ever wanted to star in one. She wouldn't know what to do when pressed to be a romantic heroine. She took a deep breath trying to calm herself. It didn't work. She told herself she was being silly. The man she had been in love with for years had written her a song. Not just a song. A superb, concert hall-level modern classic melody. She could take it without panicking. There was no reason she should not bask in it for a while. And by a while, she meant a couple of months.

She tentatively put the laptop on the other end of the couch, on which she then stretched comfortably, putting the tune on repeat. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift to the memory of that after-noon, when she had first played his violin for her. She imagined him working on this piece and felt her heart start to race again. A moment later she was jumping to her feet. Suddenly she saw with perfect clarity what she was to do.

She ran into the kitchen, grabbed Toby, who was done eating and was in the process of washing himself, lifted him up and kissed him on the nose. "Now remember, Toby, just because I'm starting a relationship with my version of Prince-Charming, it doesn't mean I won't be a crazy cat lady any-more." He took her devotion in stride, as he always did, and Molly set him back on the floor before going to retrieve her mobile from her bag.

"Marry, hullo. It's Molly. How are you?"

The other woman sighed. "Oh, hi, Molly. Hunted by the paparazzi, if you can imagine that. You?"

Molly shuddered. Yes, she could imagine that. She even suspected her day might yet come but tried not to dwell on it. "Fine... great really. I'm ringing to give John fair warning. You might want to take him out of Baker Street tonight."

"Let me sit down first," Mary requested and Molly waited. "Done. What's next on Sherlock's laboratory."

Molly hesitated and ran a hand through her hair. "Mmm... we have a lung at the lab that was rejected for transplant and it's not fit for study, either, and I thought Sherlock might want it. It has an unusually-formed developmental anomaly."

There was a brief pause on the other end. "All right." Mary breathed in deeply, audibly. "That makes perfect sense. He'd definitely want that. Thanks for sparing John the trauma of seeing him play with it on the kitchen table."

"It'll still be in the fridge next to his food for a while."

"Don't remind me. That's one kitchen I'm never ever setting foot in again. Do you know what a skinned garden snake looks like, Molly?"

Molly winced in sympathy. "Yes," she admitted in a small voice.

"Didn't you study human medicine?"

"Yes, but biology was my favourite subject in school." She didn't mention she had drawn a line at dissecting cats, but birds and cold-blooded animals had been fair game.

Molly felt bad for John. She truly did, but then he was strangely squeamish for someone who had gone to medical school. Properly packaged human body parts were hardly any more toxic than some of that preprepared food the doctor favoured. To each their own, she supposed. Shrugging she took her leave of Mary and hurried to shower and change.

The clothes she chose were a minor variation on her work attire and nothing like anything she would normally wear on a date. Sherlock and her were past that point. There was too much history between them. She didn't know for certain where they were headed but was keenly aware that they had gone well beyond the first steps. In fact, she had only changed because she couldn't stand to be any longer in the same clothes, in which she had spent her harrowing shift.

She went online and looked for new restaurants in the Bart's area. Sherlock approached food in the same erratic manner he did everything else: he put a new spin on irregular eating and got bored easily, constantly needing new stimulants for his palate. She found a new Lebanese restaurant not far away from the hospital. The review on Time Out sounded great and she made a note of the address. Making sure Toby was all sorted out, she gathered her parka and bag and left.

# # #

Setting down the cooling container with the lung by the door to relieve her right hand, she took a moment to compose herself and rang the bell. She had skittered up the stairs quickly, taking advantage of the fact that another tenant coming in had opened the front door for her. Normally she would have very much liked to see Mrs. Hudson, but she was too wired to manage a decent discussion with anyone else before having her talk with Sherlock.

He opened the door dressed casually in lounge trousers and matching long-sleeved T-shirt. His hair was slightly mused and he looked younger than his usual. In her unreliable, besotted opinion, he was just adorable. His eyes widened a fraction upon seeing her but otherwise, his bored expression didn't flicker.

"I brought Lebanese food and a human lung," she said by way of explanation.

His head tilted slightly to the side but then he just stepped aside to let her in without a word. Molly didn't comment on that just marched all the way to the kitchen. She removed her coat, put it on the back of a chair and busied herself with finding a place for the items in her possession. He came in after her, regarding her in silence for a few long moments. The skin on the back of her neck prickled with tension.

"Should I change?" he finally asked.

"We're in your flat," she said gesturing to their surroundings. "I don't see why you shouldn't wear whatever you're comfortable in."

He nodded and continued to eye her pensively. "I apologised."

She licked her lips nervously. "I know. Daniel told me."

He looked at the food on the table, at the organ container on the floor and then back at her face again. She wondered what he was seeing or if he searched for something specific in her countenance.

"Is this a date?" he inquired softly.

She cocked her head to the side. "Do you want it to be?"

His gaze slid back to what she had brought in with her. "I'm not sure what the proper etiquette for such occasions is."

Molly chuckled. "I think we got that out of the way when I arrived here with a frozen human lung."

He took a step closer, looking bemused at her words, his mouth drawing to that side in that half-smile that made his eyes crinkle and her knees weak. "What's wrong with it?" he asked gesturing to the recipient housing the unusual token.

Molly grabbed her bag from the chair, on which it was deposited. "Would I bring you an organ without a copy of its documentation?"

His smile bloomed into a toothed grin, as he took the papers from her. He perched them precariously on an empty Erlenmeyer flask on the table, when she spoke again: "I got it, you know."

His gaze travelled slowly on the planes of her face, this time clearly looking for something. "Did you like it?"

"I love it," she confessed eyes fixed on him. "Did you write it for me?"

"Yes, I did."

She inched herself closer, her blood loud in her ears. "Does it have a title?"

"Violin Romance for Molly," he said almost huskily.

She gave him a face-splitting grin. "Molly is very flattered by that."

He huffed, breaking the spell their intertwined gazes had woven. "And speaking about herself in the third person."

She arched a brow at him. "Jealous that you didn't do it first?"

He scoffed but then paused and scowled in thought. Molly shook her head at a loss before deciding to change the subject. "So shall we start by eating or by dissecting?"

He glanced at the container with the lung then up at her face again, his brow still furrowed in concentration. Arming herself with patience, Molly waited for his answer. She was surprised when he made an annoyed hissing sound. "Every idiot in this world can do this. There is no reason why we cannot."

Molly winced. "You haven't been on a date before, have you?"

"Dinner first?" he guessed.

"This is not a test, Sherlock. Are you hungry?"

He seemed to consider the question for a moment or so. "Yes, a bit."

"So am I. Let's eat then."

He breathed a sigh of relief and strode to the kitchen counter to get them dinnerware, while she lay out the food.

"And no, I have never been on a date before," he finally told her, once they had sat down to eat.

She took a bite of a piece of kousa mahshi and chewed it carefully. "Remember how you told me of my lacking dates, when we first met? Not much has changed since then. I had to make it through Queen Mary and into histopathology training on merit awards, since I couldn't afford it on my own. And it's not like it was easy to begin with; it's medical school, after all. I counted myself lucky to get out of there without without any sleep-deprivation related conditions. A relationship would have been too much to ask for. I guess it's classic urban spinster syndrome. You study and work for years and after a while it's just odd taking any time off from it to do something else. Until I got the position at Bart's. I was so happy that day and I had no one to tell. That's when I started with Internet dating."

"Boring."

"Tell me about it. Anyway, things went rather well until I had to say what kind of doctor I was. I mean, look at me." Taking it verbatim he did, his gaze intense enough to be hard to bear. She felt her cheeks flame up. "Nice girl like me slashing up dead bodies for a living. I'm fairly certain a few of my dates suspected me of having some corpses of my own making buried somewhere."

"Now and then people have assumed the same about me."

"Aren't we British version of Bonnie and Clyde?" she said sarcastically. He just laughed.

"And then there was you."

He looked at her curiously. "What about me?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "Are you honestly asking me that now? After everything?"

"I understand." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "No. What do I understand?"

"Fine. I'll just come out and say it: I went on more than a few dates just trying to get over you. In fact, that's the whole reason why I went out with _Jim from IT_ to begin with," she elaborated. His eyebrows shot up and he looked very pleased with himself to have one more up on his former nemesis. A thought suddenly occurred to her. "And then I dumped him after just three dates."

"I did tell you he was gay," he said primly.

She shook her head and leaned back in her chair. "That's not why." He frowned and she went on. "I, Molly Hooper, broke up with one of the greatest criminal minds of our time because I thought he had no spine." His eyes narrowed. "He agreed with me on everything," she explained. "I liked Glee, he said it was lovely, I asked where he wanted to go eat, he said wherever I wanted... . It was..."

"Dull," they said at the same time and then giggled.

"This is..." he started again, once the peals of laughter had died down.

"Nice, pleasant, fun, not a waste of time," she suggested.

"Yes."

"OK," she said helping herself to some more humus.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

The Clerkenwell Prison is a real place. I don't know how open to the public, though, and I wouldn't recommend Sherlock's sightseeing method. It featured in the 2009 Sherlock Holmes film. /2010/03/in_pictures_catacombs_of_the_ ?showpage=8#gallery-1

Jack Sheppard is also real; his biography was ghostwritten by Daniel Defoe (very interesting read!).

# # #

The restaurant was lovely: elegant without being overly fancy, tastefully decorated in the style of the inns of Southern-France, softly illuminated by golden light and faintly smelling of lavender. Mireille Mathieu sang in the background. Their table was a discreet one, by one of the windows overlooking the darkened street outside. Her ratatouille was delicious and she took another forkful while trying to covertly steal another glance of him. She had no illusion that he had not caught her. He was also watching her, back rigid, eyes that were more green than blue tonight speculative. His hands were idly fumbling with his dinner ware. He seemed to have little appetite for the food and he had barely touched his wine. With the tension between them so thick, Molly was losing her nerve, too.

"This is awkward," she finally said.

"No," he answered quickly, too quickly, before shooting a helpless look to their surroundings. "Is this not good?"

She honestly didn't know which one of them was worse at it. "No, no," she hastened to correct him. "The restaurant is very romantic and you did everything right, but... ." She expelled a long, shuddery breath. "You're uncomfortable and I'm about to start stammering any moment now."

He abandoned any pretence of interest in his food. "Yes, all right, this is tedious, but I thought you'd like it."

She held up a hand. "Sherlock, this is all very sweet of you, but I'm not doing this because I want to go on dates in fancy restaurants or hold hands at the cinema. I just... want to be with you... ."

His face softened but his eyes retained their analytical edge. "All right," he said lying back in his chair. He seemed to ponder her words for a few seconds then opened his mouth to say something but rapidly changed his mind.

Molly drew her lower lip into her mouth, teeth worrying at it, as she grew nervous again.

"You're eating your lipstick," he observed in a soft tone of voice.

Her cheeks heated and she shifted her gaze to the street outside. "I guess my mouth's getting small again," she muttered and he made a non-committal sound halfway between a sigh and a grunt. As if on cue, her lips twisted irritably. "I know, no jokes."

"You're right. This is awkward."

She looked back at him, at a loss. "When I said I hadn't dated much, I forgot to mention I'm bad at it, too. Around this time I'm usually finished with my small talk reserves and I resort to speaking about post mortems. And then there's no second date."

He made a dismissive gesture with his right hand, grimacing in disgust at her tale. "I enjoy listening to you talk about post mortems."

She should really see a general practician about her annoying blushing. She couldn't see herself, but her face felt as if it were on fire. She had to be flushed. "Mmm... thanks! Do you want us to go and sneak into the lab at Bart's to look at some slides?"

His eyes lit up. "All right, but we won't be sneaking into Bart's tonight."

"No?"

The corners of his mouth drew down in a very convincing imitation of a pout, but his eyes were tinkling with mischief. "No." And with that he signalled for the bill.

# # #

"Sherlock, are you sure we're supposed to be here?"

Her hand was in his gloved one, as he led her through darkened corridors, while his powerful flash-light illuminated a pathway amid damp walls marred by rusty pipelines. The air was dense and stale and smelled of mould and dirt with the occasional whiff of decay. Her shoes had already ended up a few times in foul-scented sloughs. Although she felt sorry for her mary janes, she was happy she had had the foresight to wear a pair of simple, black trousers with her rose pleated blouse instead of one of her rare skirts. She was shivering slightly, her anorak trench not quite fit for exploring cold London undergrounds.

"Normally not," he responded to her question, sounding completely at ease with trespassing. "And never this late in the evening. But if they truly wanted to keep people out, they should have employed better security."

"So this is real Victorian dungeon?" she mused out loud.

"Older," he said gleefully. "The Clerkenwell House of Detention was erected in the 1600s but partially burnt during the Gordon Riots. What was left of it was demolished in 1893. These catacombs are all that remains of it."

Something small and furry scurried past her left foot and she squealed more in surprise than in actual fright.

"Rats?" he asked. The corridors were becoming wider and were now ornate with brick arches.

"Unless this place is haunted," she said in a light tone.

"I don't think so," he responded in kind. "Jack Sheppard was hanged at Tyburn."

"Who?"

"A famous eighteenth century thief. He was imprisoned here but kept escaping."

"I supposed that explains why they finally hang him."

He chuckled and squeezed her hand harder. Apparently her jokes were growing on him.

He came to a halt rather abruptly in what the flash-light revealed to be some kind of a squared hall with thick block pillars. The bleary artificial rays smoothed over the walls to another corridor, this one narrower. The crevices in it were barred with wooden grates. Cells. A shiver of excitement sped through her. She assumed that the place had an odd kind of beauty when properly lit, but its true Gothic charm was better revealed wrapped in shadows and the still darkness hovering around them.

"You liked penny dreadful stories as a child, didn't you?" she guessed.

The light flickered briefly on her face and she squinted. "You read _The Mysteries of London _in between Jane Austen novels, too," he stated with absolute certainty.

"And those of Paris and Lisbon. And _The Slums of_ _Sankt Petersburg._"

"Any favourite?"

"I'd have to say London."

"How very patriotic of you."

"You liked London best, too?" she asked staring in the penumbra hiding his face from her.

"Of course. There's an interesting tunnel to the south. Do you want to see it?"

"Sure. Where does it lead?"

"You'll see."

# # #

"Late night?" Meena asked leaning closer.

Molly lifted her eyes from her microscope and stifled a yawn. "A bit, yes."

Her friend looked at her from the corners of her eyes. "Molly Hooper, are you holding out on me?"

Molly pretended to be engrossed by her slide again. In truth she was done with that sample, but though she wanted to share the auspicious beginning of her and Sherlock's dating experience with her best friend, she knew Meena was wary of him and wasn't certain who she would take the news.

Molly opened her mouth to talk but Meena sketched an abortive gesture with her left hand. "Molls, I don't mean to pry. Whenever you're ready to tell me... ."

Molly bent her head close enough to the other woman that their forehead almost touched. "It's him," she whispered.

Meena's eyes widened in utter shock. "Him?! As in... _him_?"

Molly only nodded and put her finger to her lips. Meena did a quick once-over of the lab, but nobody was paying attention to them. The pathologist felt relieved that her friend understood her need for discretion. She had always kept her private life as private as she could manage, but this time there were extenuating circumstance and she was in mood to edge on the rumour mill about her and Sherlock.

"Did he take you some place nice?" Meena murmured conspiratorially.

Molly smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact he did. Have you heard of Clerkenwell Prison?"

# # #

Hours later and Molly still felt like coughing, her throat raw and scratchy. But at least, the burn in her lungs was gone. Meena sprinted back from the kitchen and handed her a glass of fresh water that felt heavenly in her smoke-tasting mouth. She should brush her teeth again. Her friend took a seat next to her on the couch, staring her up and down with severity.

"You do know you're too old to be acting the part of the good girl going out with the school troublemaker," Meena cautioned.

Molly tried to scoff only to regret it when her throat constricted painfully. She swallowed some more water. "I'm an adult. If I want to smoke, I can smoke. Besides, it's tobacco, it's legal. It's not... you used to smoke."

"And I quit for a reason. You might be an adult, but after all the pulling of your pigtails he did, I'm not sure about him."

For a few moments Molly actually tried to remember when, if ever, she had worn pigtails at work and if Sherlock had actually pulled on them, before she realised the full absurdity of what Meena was implying. "Hold on. When in all the years Sherlock didn't even know I was female, did he pull pull my non-existent pigtails?"

Meena licked at her lips, vacillating. "How many times did you cry on my shoulder over something nasty he had said to you?"

"Too many times to recounted, if I still want to have a dignity tomorrow," she replied sardonically.

"Right. And, dear heart, no man, not even him." Meena put up her hands when Molly attempted to interrupt her. "I know you think he's one special snowflake, but in some things we're all the same. I didn't want to give you false hope at the time, but no man manages to sabotage a woman's dating life that many times by accident."

This time Molly did succeed at proper scoffing. "Trust me, Meena, the only place Sherlock ever came across jealousy was at the scenes of the crimes of passion he solved."

Meena clicked her tongue loudly. "If you say so, but meanwhile do me a favour and think twice once you get to the tattoo and crazy hair stage of this rebel relationship of yours."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Yes, because that'd be a problem and not that we blew up his microwave with a piece of human lower intestine in it just last week."

"Dr. Watson and I will have to start a support group before long, won't we?"

# # #

Both he and Greg stared at their respective beers deep in thought.

"So there they both were, the picture of angelic innocence, while the kitchen stank of bleach and the microwave had disappeared without a trace," John finally said.

The crease between Greg's eyebrows deepened. "Do you think they're dating now? And if they are, do you think Sherlock knows that's what they're doing?"

John took a swig of his drink and shrugged. "Nobody's saying a peep about it. Molly just comes in, brings baked goods for me and Mrs. Hudson and body parts and chemicals for Sherlock and then they just work on experiments for hours on end. The whole thing couldn't be mistaken for anything but platonic, if it were 1887."

"What does Mary say?"

"To butt out, because they're both adults and it's their business, if you can believe that," John said exasperated.

"She and Sherlock met, right?"

John gave him a mystified look and didn't reply to the clearly rhetorical question, opting to take another gulp of his warming beer.

"Look," Greg opined mildly. "If they are together, I'm glad for it. Molly's great and she could be really good influence on him."

John felt the dark tendrils of despair creeping into his soul. "They vanished a microwave together, Greg. I'm not sure who's influencing whom here."

# # #

"You were the one who taught me how to pick-pocket," she groused into her mobile.

"I'm regretting it that now," he snapped, anger evident in his tone. "Give it back!"

Molly refused to back down. "You're not getting back your magnifying glass, until you apologise to both John and Mary for disrupting their anniversary. Surely even you can realise how important these things are to some people."

"We don't celebrate anniversaries," he protested.

"We also routinely break into historical sites on dates. Every couple's different, Sherlock."

"I'll take your scalpel," he threatened.

"Go ahead. I have many of those."

There was a venomous short laughter on the other end. "Yes, but only one of them is a carbon steel Swann-Morton with a PM60 range that you bought for your first pathology project."

Her hackles rose perilously. "Oh, don't you dare! I know where to find your skull and I've got the instruments to turn it into bit-sized pieces."

"And I know where to find your cat."

She took a deep, measured breath. "Too far, Sherlock," she warned.

"Fine," he spew the word like a gun would a bullet. She could imagine the magnitude of the grimace he was making right now. "I'll apologise and then we meet and exchange at the same time."

"You already took my scalpel, didn't you?"

"You started it," he retorted.

"Blackfriars Bridge in exactly three hours. On the dot. Or you can look for your magnifying glass on the bottom of the river."

"Same goes for your scalpel," he sneered, unwilling to let her have the last word.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: there really are bees on the rooftop of the Fortnum & Mason store in London (and not just there) and you really pay them a visit, if you like, but make sure to book tour well in advance.

# # #

| Do you like bees? |

| I don't dislike them. |

| Saturday, at 1? |

| Pick me up at my flat? |

| Yes. |

He slipped his mobile into his dressing gown and returned to his microscope. He didn't have a case right not but wasn't exactly bored, either. He was experimenting with post-mortem lividity using a series of skin samples Molly had brought him. When he had opened to door to find her on the other side with an organ container and Lebanese food, he had understood that his token of music had been well received and that things had been about to radically change between them. He had also realised that the change might not be entirely for the better. The numerous emails between John and his many girlfriends before Mary attested to a whole range of supposedly romantic entanglements he had no desire to be a part of. Mostly because they all seemed so tedious, not to mention ridiculous.

However, during the very first date he had initiated, Molly had expressly stated she had no such expectations of him. She was content to explore the vestiges of London's criminal past with him and interested in the more unusual art shows he sometimes frequented. She gladly helped him with his experiments and because, despite what John might think, he did understand that romantic attachment implied a level of mutuality, he assisted her with her research, even when that required such mind-numbing actions as passing her slides.

Much like in their previous interactions, Molly never treated him like an amateur who would do best to mind his business and not try to play with the experts. She worked with him at her typical ruthlessly efficient pace and expected him to keep up. Since not even his brain housed all the knowledge in the world, he was quick the read on the issue at hand, whenever he fell behind. Needless to say, his ever expanding pathology expertise turned out to be very useful on his murder cases. She thrived on talking about her work with him and he had the distinct impression that this was something she had missed in her previous attempts at a relationship.

He knew that many of John's former relationships had broken up over his girlfriends' grilling his friend about his feelings, and would have been not surprised to see someone like Molly take that route as well. But she never asked him how he felt about her, nor did she pester her him with sentimental confessions of her own. She seemed to be satisfied to take their relationship as it was and always respected his boundaries, be they physical or emotional. She never demanded anything of him, not even the stereotypical romantic tokens or that he did her small favours such as caring for her pet. Quite the opposite, she was relieved to see him have as little interaction with her animal as possible.

She never complained about his work schedule or about his occasional leaving in the middle of a date, because the Scotland Yard had phoned him. He also saw no reason to malign her own work hours or her being on call. Whenever he got bored between cases, he could employ his mind to find some place interesting to take Molly and relieve the tediousness. Mrs. Hudson now rarely whined that he used her walls for target practice.

Better yet, their relationship had seemed to calm down his brain chemistry previously jarred by his inability to delete her. The sentiment had descended to the deep recesses of his mind, where he could afford to overlook it. Her memory no longer haunted him in the privacy of his flat, now that he had no reason to keep avoiding her and it had stopped outlining his solving cases. In the aftermath of this discovery, his brain patterns had been very easy to return to their seamless functioning of yore.

# # #

Molly sat on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching Toby sleep peacefully on her pillow. For her part, she was wide awake. In the months since she and Sherlock had gotten together, her nightmares had dissipated, it had been easier for her to enter the morgue and she had felt less trepidation walking in the street after dark on her own. But then she was been preoccupied by the newness of what was happening between them and probably too elated for her psyche to plunge again into fear and depression. Her therapist had shared her optimism, stating that a relationship was good for her at this point, because it expanded her support system.

Molly hadn't been keen on contradicting him by explaining the all the infinitesimal complexes of what she and Sherlock had. Everything about their relationship was very tentative, yet flowed easier than she had ever dreamed, and she didn't want to jinx it. She knew he would most likely never love her the way she loved him. The better she got to know him, the more she grasped at the reasons as to why. But even if he could return her feelings, the self-imposed divorce between his formidable intellect and his emotions would never allow him to express it. She wasn't affected by it, though, merely making note of the reality. People were in successful relationships for a variety of reasons other than the romantic ones. What they had already contained all the building blocks necessary for them to make it: trust, respect and an unorthodox sort of friendship, but friendship none-the-less. Their chances were as good as anybody's.

She had been happy. Then two nights ago the nightmares returned.

# # #

Sherlock crossed from the kitchen and into the living-room, a newspaper in one hand and a piece of buttered toast in the other. John was eating his breakfast in front of the telly.

"There is still no word on the alleged temporary closing of the General Surgery Department at Saint Bartholomew, but we have spoken to relatives of would-be patients and they say their loved ones have been routed towards other hospitals. The news broke two hours ago, when an inside source wishing to remain anonymous told BBC News of a bacterial infection having been discovered in the landmark London hospital...," an alerted woman's voice reverberated from the television and into the room.

Sherlock quickened his steps and walked straight into the bedroom. His mobile was somewhere on his unmade bed. Dropping both his newspaper and the half-eaten toast on a bedside table, he checked. No text messages from Molly. He stood and went to dress himself.

# # #

Her head was beyond pounding. It felt as if someone was playing loud drum music off-key right underneath her temples. Her eyes were dry and her skin felt stretch too tight over muscles that seemed too weaken with each step she took. At least, they had found the source. Hospital infections were rare these days, but no institutions, no matter how reputable, completely evaded the risk. She had been the one to find it in the tissues sent over from General Surgery. MSRA, the antibiotics-resistant terror of every medical facility.

She took out her key, missing the hole, as she tried to fit into the lock, but a split second later, the door opened on its own. Sherlock stood on the other side dressed in his purple button-down and black slacks. She blinked furiously to assure herself it wasn't a hallucination her addled brain was indulging in.

"You sight is fine, Molly," he said stepping aside to let her in.

In the very first hours of the crisis, as they had been scraping to put together teams to go in search for the source of the infection and fresh tissues sample began to pour in the pathology lab, a rumour had begun to gain contour: someone had already blabbed to the BBC about the whole thing. And when someone like this happened to a place like Bart's, it was news. So he had to have heard it on the telly and easily pieced together the rest.

She let her bag drop to the floor and shrugged out of her parka, which he graciously took from her.

"I didn't test anything on him," he assured. "And I gave him food."

She nodded absently, heading towards the bedroom, stepping over Toby on her way. Sherlock was there first, pulling the covers aside so she could just lie down. When she did, he knelt and removed her shoes before lifting her feet on the bed. Then he covered her. She closed her eyes, giving into her body's exhaustion. His knuckles caressed the side of her face and her heart swelled at the tenderness in the gesture.

The bed dipped, as he got in behind her, on top of the covers. Their bodies weren't touching, but still she thought she could feel his warmth at her back. His arm came to gingerly rest on her waist. For a few minutes it was all quiet. She was too tired to fall asleep just yet. She just lay curled on her side and listened to his breathing in the unusually close space they shared.

There was no physical component at all to their relationship. They never even held hands without some practical reason for it. For a man who couldn't care less about the boundaries of others, he had a clearly determined personal space and she respected that. Besides, it wasn't like she hadn't troubles of her own expressing affection in a physical manner. In the early years of her friendship with Meena, they had gotten into a monumental fight, when the other woman had discovered that Molly was uncomfortable being hugged and hadn't said a word about it to her friend, who was her polar opposite in that.

Her eyes flew open, when a warm fur touched her hand. She smiled slightly, as Toby came to nestle himself by her chest. Sherlock shifted behind her, drawing himself closer.

"Do you know why I chose pathology?" she said at last.

They had never discussed it, but still his answer was entirely correct. "After the loss of your father, you couldn't face the thought of your patients dying. You felt even less prepared to tell them or their loved ones about it."

"I do have to talk to families sometimes."

"With the odd exception, they already know. Did you see someone die today, Molly?"

"Not directly, but it still felt like I was there," she murmured. Two dead and it wasn't over yet. "I'm sorry. I know you don't think about these things."

"You do," he whispered in her hair.

Her hand found his at her waist and she entwined their fingers. He was clumsy with it, his hand draped over hers as if he were holding a small, live bird in his palm.

"When I fall asleep, you can leave if you get bored or want to work instead," she said softly.

He expelled a long but didn't comment. She was almost asleep when she heard him speak again.

"I also know you think that just because they're dead, it doesn't mean they're no longer human. I've known since the day we met. You were handling the tissue samples in the lab with care and respect, as if you didn't want to let yourself forget that they were once a part of someone alive."

Her breath caught and she fought the tears threatening to spill from her sore eyes. She squeezed his hand harder.

# # #

Sherlock closed Molly's bedroom door silently and only then allowed himself an inspiration loud enough to be a sigh. It was unwanted, but he had managed to restrain himself before, as he had walked into her flat. He looked around the living-room. The pillow and the blanket were still on the couch in front of the telly, just like when he had arrived. The bed had been carelessly made, which was unusual for her. She had been frustrated when she had gotten up. The sleeping pills prescribed to her upon her release from the hospital were in her night-stand drawer instead of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. She had stopped taking them after her Oxycodone incident and hadn't had any the night before, either. He was sure of it; he had counted the tablets. But she had brought them closer to her as a form of placebo.

Molly wasn't sleeping well, which meant her nightmares had returned. From other signs of negligence he had had discovered in her home, he could only conclude that she had had a relapse in her PTSD symptoms.

# # #

The Fortnum & Mason management owned him a favour for solving a particularly embarrassing blackmail problem, with which they couldn't afford to go to the police. He had forgone his fee in exchange for unlimited access to the beehives they kept on the store roof. He had also wormed his way into the good graces of the hive-master, something made easier by the fact that the man was no idiot and was very skilled at what he did.

The after-noon was pleasant. The skies above them could almost be mistaken for blue and the city spread around the edges of the roof until far beneath the horizon. The were surrounded by a thin buzzing cloud of insects, as the bee-master lifted a honeycomb from one of the hives to give them a better look of the swarming inhabitants, all the while assuring Molly she had nothing to be afraid of, since the Black Welsh bees were notoriously gentle. Sherlock thought it superfluous, since they were already wearing protection suits.

His eyes travelled to Molly's face that was partially absconded by the net mask. She seemed completely taken with the spectacle before her and her shoulders were devoid of the tension he had noted in them in the past few days. He recalled that when they had stepped out of the taxi in front of the store and he had been watching her body language for signals of her mood, her braided hair had caught in the sunlight and he had noticed for the first time that its chestnut colour had golden reflections. Odd that he hadn't seen that before.

# # #

"You have been having nightmares for the past two weeks now. You are getting worse again," he said to her once they were back on the street just outside Fortnum & Mason.

She stared ahead into the traffic. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I wanted to, but I...," she paused, swallowing hard. "I guess I just didn't want to spoil things for us."

His lips twisted with impatience. "You have a psychiatric condition, Molly. You have little saying in how it manifests."

She looked at him with gloomy eyes. Her pupils were obviously dilated. She wasn't short-sighted. The other most likely cause was depression. He wondered if she truly hadn't realised he could easily deduce what was wrong with her or just ignored the possibility. "I know that... intellectually. But I just wished it stopped. Sherlock, would you mind if I returned to my flat on my own? I'd like to be alone tonight."

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

He hadn't answered the door-bell, but since Mrs. Hudson had told her he was home, she used the key he had once given her to let herself in. He found him at the kitchen table and tinkering with some experiment. John was nowhere to be seen. He was probably with Mary. Sherlock had told her the previous week his friend planned to propose but only wanted to tell the Detective after he had his answer.

She pulled up the chair opposite from him at the table and sat down. "That's one way to get me to talk to you."

The right corner of his mouth formed his typical half grin, but his eyes stayed on the slide he was currently using his microscope to observe. "It's in the bedroom, on the bed side table," he told her.

"What else?" she asked not moving from her chair.

He fiddled with the controls on the microscope, as he spoke, his tone carefully measure and his face not giving away much. "If you're referring to what else I stole from you, I assured the scalpel is the only one. If you mean your symptoms, I noticed you still haven't lowered your bathroom mirror to its regular place. You have brochures for the latest laser scar reduction techniques available in London, but also an extensive collection of creams and ointments. You won't look at them yet you take good care of them. And you haven't made a single appointment for their reduction. In fact, going by the distinct lack of oils deposits and fingerprints on all those glossy flyers, I'd same you haven't even opened them. You don't want them smaller or gone, Molly. You hate the event that caused them but a part of you knows you're not really disfigured." He raised his head and looked at her with stormy blue eyes. "You're a survivor."

"I'm afraid, Sherlock. Every time I walk into the mortuary, I'm terrified."

"Yet you come back."

She focused on the flask and sample jars standing between them. "I wanted to work at Bart's since I was admitted to Queen Mary. I struggled for years to get there. I'm not giving up it to a faceless man with a knife." She grabbed the edge of the table, feeling incipient vertigo grip onto her body, as her next words tumbled out of her mouth. "Sherlock, if I show them to you, will you tell me the truth as you always did, no matter how awful."

Her eyes lifted slowly to his face. He had abandoned his microscope to study her with a wounded look on his face that shocked her to core. She shivered.

"Yes," he said, his voice rougher than usual.

She knew that what she was doing was selfish, that it put a strain on them both, but if she couldn't look herself, she needed someone who would. Pushing her chair back, she stood. Her fingers were trembling as she began to unbutton her cardigan then shirt underneath. She was breathing faster, on the edge of hyperventilating, as she pushed the layers of material away from her left side. Her bra would obscure some of the scarring, but he would still see enough of it to get the full picture. She was suddenly all too aware of how high on her chest the longer scar was.

He kept his eyes on her face while she unbuttoned and only slid his gaze lower, when her arms were hanging limply by her torso. He took one sweeping look before getting to his feet and quickly moving around the table to stand before her. Gently he pulled the fold of her blouse back together and began to do up the buttons of her cardigan with brisk, deft fingers. Molly drew her lower lip into her mouth to chew on it. She had the odd feeling of existing in a vacuum and held onto the certainty of his touch to keep herself anchored into the right time and place.

Once he was done with the buttons, he drew her in an embrace, squeezing her shaking body to him. She felt so safe in his arms. Every time. Always.

"You're not the only who is glad you're alive, Molly," he said and the only time he could remember his voice being so close to cracking was that day in the lab when he had told her he thought he was going to die and that he needed her.

It occurred to her that he might not have come for her assistance at all but instead had come to see her one last time and say goodbye. She had forced never to dwell on how close she had been to losing him on that nightmarish day, but now it did help with understanding him better. She realised in that moment that he wasn't with her because of her patience with him or because of the way their idiosyncrasies matched, but because he was comfortable being vulnerable in front of her.

She raised her head to look him in the eye again. "I love you," she said for the first time.

A tiny smile flirted with his lips briefly before vanishing. "I know," he admitted.

She stood on her tiptoes and carefully, unsure if she wasn't perhaps overstepping the unspoken boundaries of their relationship, she placed a light, chaste kiss to his lips. Another first. He blinked in surprise but he leaned over to brush his lips against her left cheek in acknowledgement, when they were interrupted by the noise of an explosion coming from behind them. They broke apart quickly and he rushed to stow his microscope away from the flames spreading from the shards of a Schlenk tube.

"Water or oxygen deprivation?" she asked.

"The latter."

She grabbed a few kitchen towels to aid him put out the fire. As they were trying to scrub the traces of burnt chemicals from the table, while the pervasive smell of burnt toxic waste spread through the flat, he looked up at her from where he was gathering the broken glass from the floor. There was a trace of uncertainty in his eyes that made her stop what she was doing and give him her undivided attention.

"Molly, this... what we are, is it enough?"

She smiled at him. "Sherlock, if I didn't want to be with you with all that implied, I wouldn't have asked you for coffee to begin with?"

He frowned, his expression shifting to confused. "When did you ask me for coffee?"

# # #

John walked into a picture of domestic bliss. Molly was curled up in their armchair with a tome, their Union Jack pillow in her lap. Across from her Sherlock occupied the leather chair, engrossed in a tome of his own. The flat smelled worse than that fancy soap shop Mary favoured and from where he had once bought her an anniversary gift. If this didn't spell doom, nothing did.

"Hi, John," Molly greeted with a broad grin, looking innocent enough to be lounging on a fluffy cloud with a harp.

"One day, I'm just gonna come home to find a huge crater where 221B used to stand, am I not?"

# # #

_One year later_

The defence barrister looked her squarely in the eyes, his own narrowing dangerously. Molly's hands turned into fists, as her short nails dug into her palm. She had an inkling of what was coming and the days spent steeling herself for this particular confrontation had not helped. Nor was the thought that this had been a long time coming comforting. It had all begun by sheer accident. Truly. The previous weekend she and Sherlock had just been coming out of the Almeida Theatre, when the heel of the left loafer had slid across a crack in the pavement at the wrong angle and she had momentarily lost her balance. He had been quick to catch her before she fell, but unfortunately, someone had snapped a picture of him with his arm around her then promptly sold it to _The Sun_.

Now it was all over the Internet together with wild speculations and the nastiest of implications about both the two of them and John and Mary's recent nuptials. She had had to close her blog and John had restricted the comments on his. To make matters worse, a few people at Bart's had talked to the tabloids about how she had always been Sherlock's favourite pathologist. Molly had tried not to let it get to her, but Meena was currently on a warpath.

"Dr. Hooper, is it not true that Sherlock Holmes consulted with the police on this investigation and had, in fact, concluded that Mr. Doyle's death had been a murder and not an accident after spending less than three minutes on the crime scene?" the brief drew her attention back to him, seemingly done with the pregnant pause that had been meant to rattle her.

She took a deep breath and reminded herself she never stammered when it came to her work. "I wouldn't know. By the time I arrived on the scene, Mr. Holmes had already left."

"And you did you not see him at all for the duration of the investigation?"

The prosecution barrister, Miss Sorrel, got to her feet. "My lord, I object. What is the relevance of all this?"

The judge arched a brow at the side of the defence. "That's exactly what I would like to know, too, Mr. Gardiner."

"My lord, Dr. Hooper has a personal relationship with Mr. Holmes and if there's even a slight chance that he might have influenced her findings on the cause of death, the jury has a right to hear about it."

Molly bit back the words about to erupt from her throat, telling herself to stay calm. For her part, Sorrel was glaring daggers at the other solicitor. "My lord, this borders on libellous," she piped up.

"I will allow this line of inquiry, but you would do well to watch your words, Mr. Gardner."

The man nodded briefly before eyeing Molly once more. "I shall ask again, Dr. Hooper. Did you have any contact with Mr. Holmes during his investigation of this alleged murder?"

Molly briefly sucked her lips into her mouth before replying. "Yes, I did."

"In what form?"

"I texted him the preliminary results of the autopsy." There was a stir in the court room, as murmurs erupted from the gallery disturbing the solemn stillness of before.

"Was that before or after you informed DI Lestrade as well?"

"Before," she answered, shooting an apologetic look to Miss Sorrel, whose anger was written plainly on her face.

"Do you do that often, Dr. Hooper?"

"Sometimes." She had a very bad feeling about this line of questioning.

"Is not also true that you have been giving Mr. Holmes unfettered and often unsanctioned access to autopsy reports and to the pathology lab at the St. Bartholomew's Hospital for years?"

"Mr. Holmes aids the police on official cases. As such, it was fair to assume he had a blanket approval for his requests. Besides, my direct superior has been aware of his presence in the lab or the mortuary more often than not."

"Is your direct superior or anyone else for that matter aware of the body parts and laboratory substances you allow your boyfriend to take home for his own personal use?"

She took a deep breath. Apparently it wasn't just the media some of her colleagues had spoken to. Meena was going to kill somebody before long, she knew it. "Sherlock never took anything that was relevant to an ongoing investigation or deemed unsuitable for hospital needs. I would not have allowed it."

"And are there any records of this or are we to take your word for it just like with your autopsy conclusions?"

"Objection, my lord," Sorrel interfered.

The judge looked at the defence barrister sternly. "I shall not warn you again, Mr. Gardiner."

"Dr. Hooper, given your history of complying with Mr. Holmes' outlandish demands and your current romantic relationship with him, is it not possible that you let yourself be influenced by his own preliminary conclusions in determining the cause of Neil Doyle's death, even if Mr. Holmes himself did not specifically request you did so?"

"No," she said vehemently. "That's not possible."

"How can you be certain? After all, it's clear that you love the man. That can cloud anyone's judgement."

"Not mine. I never take any liberties with my work. Definitely not when an innocent man could go to prison and a killer walk free based on the results of what I do," she replied, infusing her words with the firmest tone she could muster.

"No further questions," the barrister finally said.

"Rebuttal," Miss Sorell interjected.

The judge merely nodded.

"Dr. Hooper," she began. "are you in a relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, I am," Molly said, trying to keep her voice level and her head straight.

"And has Mr. Holmes ever so much as insinuated that you should alter a post mortem's conclusions to suit his deductions of a crime?"

"No, never." She took a deep, fortifying breath before expanding on that. "I know everyone has a different theory as to why Sherlock does what he does, but the one thing everyone agrees on is that he's genuinely interested in the puzzle represented by the crimes he solves. He would never cheat by having someone, anyone, falsify the end result for him."

"That being said, Dr. Hooper, has anything but the state of the body and tests you conducted played any role in determining the cause of Mr. Doyle's death?"

"Absolutely not."

"And are you telling us the truth right now, Dr. Hooper?"

"Yes, I am. I have never lied while giving evidence."

"Thank you, Dr. Hooper. That would be all."

When he looked at her, the judge's face was mostly an expressionless mask, but still she thought she saw a flicker of severity that couldn't be mistaken for anything but condemning in his eyes. "You may step down," he told her.

# # #

"Mr. Sensitivity couldn't be bothered to be here to support you," came a familiar yet unwelcome voice from behind Molly, who was leaning against a wall, back to the animated corridor, trying to catch a glimpse through the window of the sea of reports undoubtedly waiting for her on the steps of Old Bailey. She hadn't found the courage yet to brave an exit.

She plastered her best professional smile before turning to face Sergeant Sally Donovan. As a forensic pathologist, Molly had to cultivate good working relationships with coppers, no matter what they might think of her and of her choice of a boyfriend.

"Hullo," she said trying to sound casual.

Donovan tilted her head to the side considering her carefully. "Dr. Hooper, I just wanted to tell you that whatever we might think of Sherlock Holmes doesn't extend to you. What happened in there today was despicable. Nobody in their right mind would think that you'd lie on an autopsy report to please your boyfriend. And if I find out that anyone at the Yard blabbed to the tabloids or to a brief about the two of you, it's not Detective-Inspector Lestrade they have to worry about, but me."

Molly suspected her eyes had to be bulging out of her head; that great was her surprise. Her smile grew genuine, as she fought to find the words. Donovan gave her a grin of her own and took a step closer.

"I know we only know each other professionally and you can say it's none of my business," the other woman started to say. "But are you OK? Is he treating you all right?"

Molly chuckled. It seemed she would have to re-evaluate everything she thought she knew about Sally Donovan. "Yes, everything's... great, in fact." She paused to lick her lips nervously. "Thank you, Sergeant Donovan, for everything... I mean."

"Sally," the policewoman corrected her.

"Thank you, Sally," Molly added meaningfully.

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Chamberlain Avocats is made up; I could have used one of England's many real high-rise law firms but decided against it.

Warnings for gore towards the end!

# # #

Sally Donovan left Old Bailey with a heavy heart. He had helped Molly Hooper sneak past the paparazzi waiting for her on the steps leading to the main entrance and out of the building. As a thanks the pathologist had offered to buy her a cup of tea and they had chatted for a while. Nothing profound, just casual conversation between fellow professionals, but Sally had been struck by how much she had enjoyed the other woman's company. Molly was fast ascending into the good graces of the Met and the Crown Prosecution Services. Since expert witnesses no longer had immunity, it had been harder and harder to persuade specialists of any kind to give evidence, but Molly never turned them down. Every time a copper called on St. Bart's for an urgent pathology test or a non-standard procedure, Molly was the one pathologist who always delivered. Regardless of her own work-load or ending shifts or the time of day and night.

There had been no mentioning of the Freak during their discussion. Molly hadn't touched the subject and Sally had respected that. But at the same time, she couldn't help but wonder why someone like Molly was with him of all people. The mere thought of anyone in a relationship with that man made her shudder, but Sally was all the more worried for Molly, who was sweet and clumsy and presumably fragile, too. She could not help but suspect him of some sinister ulterior motive for this whole relationship thing. Maybe he was conducting some sort of psycho-social experiment. She also wondered whether Molly was safe with him. Emotionally, mentally and maybe, even physically.

She had already written John Watson off as a lost cause. The good doctor's devotion to the self-appointed Consultant Detective bordered on the fanatical, but maybe she could reach Molly. Or at the very least, be on the look-out for the first sign of trouble. Bad choices in men were not entirely unfamiliar to Sally. Her unfortunate dalliance with Anderson hadn't been her most stellar moment and it haunted her interactions with her colleague to the present day.

As she sprinted towards the tube, she pulled her jacket tighter around her body shivering in the cool wetness of the late London morning. As she was giving evidence the next day, she had to drop by the CPS before returning to the Yard. At least she was one witness no defence barrister ever could accuse of doing any favours to Sherlock Holmes. And wasn't he the gift that kept on giving nauseating head-aches to every decent copper he came across?

# # #

Sherlock had not been to his family home since that night when the Woman had tried to extort a queen's ransom out of the British Government in exchange for the secrets locked into her camera phone. A lifetime ago. Back then much more pressing matters had prevented him from sliding too deep onto the slipper slope of his memories of the place, which had been a blessing of some sorts. Now he had no such outlet. The issue he hoped to only briefly discuss with his brother was beyond tedious and normally he wouldn't have skipped it entirely, but then Mycroft would grow incessantly annoying after the fact and worse yet, could well decide to involve the many solicitors keeping guard over the Holmes estates. That was something he was particularly keen on avoiding. Fortunately Mycroft would know why he was there and no doubt had everything ready for him. And he could always indulge into insulting his brother, as he made sure his visit stayed short.

The house was its usual still self, looking as lived-in as any museum, kept in pristine condition by his brother's irrational attachment to family tradition. He didn't recognise the butler who had opened him the door, but then he had made sure to make his visits as rare as possible and it spoke to reason that the staff he recalled from his childhood had either died or retired. He gave the servant his name, absently refusing his help by stating he knew where to find his brother.

He was glad to leave the vestibule quickly, clamping down on the intrusive imagine of him departing for his own personal hell that the rest of the world liked to call pre-prep. He had been seven and it had been one of those odd occasions when Mycroft had been home instead of the London boarding school school he had been enrolled in since the year of Sherlock's birth. He had stood in the doorway, keeping their driver waiting, casting nervous glances to Mummy's assessing face and Father's stern one, fighting the onslaught of tears. He had been flinging his dinner to Mycroft for days prior and his parents were angry with him. Finally in one last desperate attempt, he had gripped onto the sleeves of his brother's blazer begging to at least be sent to the same place as Mycroft.

Decades later and Sherlock still felt the shame at his undignified, useless outburst. He had been to go to Winchester College and before that, to a preparatory school in Hampshire, as it was tradition in Mummy's family, while Mycroft was slanted for St. Paul in London, as custom dictated on the side of their Father. It had all been decided years before and no amount of pleading had been able to change that. Sherlock unclenched fists he couldn't remember balling, the softly chiding voice of Nanny still echoing in the corridors of his mind, admonishing him with reminders of the waiting car as she had pried him off his brother.

He charted a course through the house to what used to be Father's study, where Mycroft, true to form, would undoubtedly be at this hour. Perched behind the massive pedestal writing desk, his brother scrolled through something on his phone, a slight crease denting the space between his brows. As expected, there were two thick manilla envelopes atop the perfectly ordered papers covering the mahogany surface. Sherlock smirked upon seeing the half-eaten sticky toffee pudding on the plate on the desk corner closest to Mycroft.

"Neglecting to tell the cook about your diet again, Mycroft," Sherlock remarked gleefully.

With one last, long look Mycroft slipped the mobile in the right upper pocket of his tweed suit. "Sherlock," he said with a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I suppose congratulations are in order."

Sherlock barely suppressed a wince and strode closer to his brother. "I suppose these are it." He did not contain his disgust at uttering the last word, however. The whole situation was ridiculous and insulting on too many levels to count, but he had no desire to waste more time belabouring needless points with any of the baggage that came with the Holmes name.

Mycroft inclined his head in agreement as the younger brother snatched the document away.

"Tell all of Chamberlain Avocats they shall have it signed sometime next week."

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted a quarter of an inch. "Next week?" he asked, though his voice betrayed no surprise. "You haven't even asked her yet."

Sherlock scoffed. "Are you worried she might not sign? Or worse, want to negotiate? There are easier ways to marry into money, Mycroft."

Mycroft chuckled, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. He clearly found the idea silly. "I know Miss Hooper will sign. It was you whom I expected you to require persuasion."

It was Sherlock's turn to be amused. That and increasingly irritated. "You think I'll subject myself to another meeting with our family solicitors after the last time?"

All traces of cheerfulness vanished from Mycroft's face as his brother no doubt thought back to the day Sherlock was referencing. Annoying as the whole thing had been, it had been a lot of fun missing twelve consecutive appointments and then telling the family attorneys and financial advisors about his profession and what he had done with the better part of his trust fund. He didn't think he had ever heard or seen Mycroft so mortified.

Satisfied, the Detective whirled around and started for the door.

"Won't you be needing Mummy's ring?"

Sherlock snorted in derision at the offer rather than the ring, his hand firmly gripping the door handle. "It wouldn't fit in Molly's medical gloves," he answered in a clipped tone of voice. A second later an idea sparked to life. "How long did you plan to wait until you saw fit to interfere into this, too?" he asked, fingers tightening on the knob, anger roiling in his blood and straining his voice.

"Two years," came Mycroft mildly-voice answer.

Sherlock wrenched the door open. Killing his brother would certainly be conducive to a discussion with the family solicitors. Still he couldn't resist, once he had a foot already in the hallway. "You should have bribed him. Cheaper than fixing the elections, wouldn't you think?"

# # #

As she didn't work directly with the Met, Molly was only in exceptional occasions the forensic pathologist present at a crime scene, but there had been some mix-up with the Scotland Yard's own people and so she had been called up. From what she had been told on the way, the situation was fairly simple: homeless man beaten to death somewhere in the derelict Queen Elizabeth Hospital for Children in Bethnal Green. The case belonged to Detective-Inspector Dimmock, who didn't seem to recognise her. She greeted him warmly, just the same. She had received a much more enthusiastic welcome from Sally Donovan.

"You're not working with Detective-Inspector Lestrade tonight, Sally?" Molly asked, as she fitted her hair in the requisite net, refraining from calling Greg by his first name, not wanting to sound overly familiar in such a formal setting.

Sally smiled ruefully. "Don't ask. Anyway, Lestrade's off tonight."

Molly nodded, casting her a sympathetic look over the surgical mask she had just put on. "Bureaucracy or computer error?"

"Both, if you can believe that. Now that's a murder weapon, if I ever saw one," Sally explained as they walked together into the abandoned hospital.

The body had been found in what had used to be a rather reputable paediatric pathology lab. Once upon a time. The pathologist stepped closer to it all the while careful not to disturb any of the markers. A forensic photographer was already busy at work. The cadaver had been stripped nearly naked, pieces of blood and dirt stained clothing scattered all over the dilapidated floor. She grew more cautious in her approach, pushing aside any melancholy at the thought of any lab dedicated to her speciality in such a degrading state. The body was unnaturally swollen and covered wherever she could see by red and purple boil-like lacerations that did not resemble those resulting from a beating. She crept even closer, cold wrapping itself around her spine. Something was not right. Then she noticed the large, star-shaped eschar on the man's right arm and the bottom of her stomach dropped with such speed it could almost make her dizzy.

Fighting the predictable rise of panic, she drew back as fast she dared on the cracked floor, toppling over one of the forensic markers in the process. Sally was asking her what was wrong, but Molly had not time for an answer. She probably never would. Her throat closed with a painful lung at the realisation that any warning was obsolete by now. They had all been exposed. It was no longer a matter of getting anyone at the crime scene to safety, but an issue of containment.

She ducked into the corridor the coppers had lit with especially bright crime scene lights and ripped off her mask, fingers seemingly not quick enough at getting her scrubs out of the way for her to reach the mobile tucked into one of the pockets of her trousers. She pressed a button on her speed dial blindly, thinking a second too late that it would have probably made more sense to call the other brother with a warning. Sending a brief prayer that he wasn't too busy or too bored to answer right away, she ignored the questioning looks she was being given and Sally's whispering something to Dimmnock no more than a foot away. He picked up on the third ring.

Molly struggled to keep her voice low and any hysteria from slipping into her tone, while she spoke as rapidly as she could manage. "There was a body found in The Queen Elizabeth Hospital for Children in Bethnal Green. Star-shaped eschar and matching cutaneous symptoms. Everybody at the scene has presumably been exposed."

TBC


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: I don't know what kind of decontamination units are in use in the UK. I went with the ones LAX employs, because I found a description of them online. I would appreciate your input on this and will appropriately correct my text.

# # #

Molly stood in the middle of what once had been a triage area of the derelict Queen Elisabeth Children's Hospital, watching the people in protective suits mill around and rapidly set up mobile mass decontamination equipment. She knew her clothes were in line to be destroyed and thought quite hysterically that today had not been a good day to wear her beloved white cardigan with cherry print. She proffered her arm for a blood sample when asked to and wordlessly took the handful of tablets – Ciprofloxacin and others of the kind, no doubt, a wise precaution, yet completely useless, if this was what she thought it was – when given to her, before being directed into one of the pop up tents.

She had made herself avoid the eyes of any of the coppers and forensic experts, who had found themselves confined to inside the abandoned building, as the helicopters and the unmarked vans had arrived mere minutes after her phone-call. They had to be scared out of their minds, by now realising they had accidentally found themselves at the scene of something horrible. Molly wished she had any reassuring words for them but felt the only thing she could say under the circumstances was the truth and with decontamination the utmost priority, she would rather not encumber the job of the men in protective gear by spreading panic.

DI Dimmock, Sally and other officers who knew her had attempted to get her to tell them what was going on, but the pathologist had only explained that she couldn't talk about it, aware that the quiet mobilisation around them would soon clue them in as to why. As all their means of contact with the exterior world had been swiftly stripped from them, she had watched the fear grow around her. She fervently hoped her own didn't show on her face.

Stripping quickly inside the tent, she soaped and scrubbed herself down before standing under the specially designed shower, mulling over variables in her head. The perfectly scar-shaped eschar was a dead give-away. She ordered herself not to dwell on the people undergoing the same procedure as her right now, of their friends and families or on the possibility that it had already gotten out of the building and into the rest of London. Her hands would tremble, if she did, and she needed them steady. Maybe it was too late for them, but the body of the victim could still contain vital information to the development of a cure. Once dry, she slipped into the khaki T-shirt and cargo scrub pants made available to her and hurried out of the tent.

"I need to speak to Mycroft Holmes," she told one of the plastic suits she found outside.

She was ignored and he walked away as if he had never been spoken to in the first place. Molly bit into her lower lip, her eyes searching the upper part of the walls of the chamber brightly lit by large mounted LEDs. Sure enough, there were freshly installed security cameras in all corners. All the more grateful that the pop up tents had opaque walls, she strolled closer to one of the cameras before anyone could stop her, and stared right at the red dot on it.

"I know you're there and I know you're listening... and I think I should do the post-mortem of the body they found here. I've seen this before and I'm qualified to perform high-risk autopsies. Besides, I've already been exposed. If anything goes wrong, it won't make much of a difference."

# # #

"She is right," Sherlock said evenly from where he was leaning against the ledge of one of the windows in Mycroft's office, hands steeped together and face darkened in thought.

John's head snapped up and he shot his friend a dirty look. "Sherlock, if she's not infected and cuts herself..." he chided trailing off, as Sherlock of all people would be aware of the consequences of the slightest mistake during such a procedure.

"If this is the strand Frederick Keller made and Dr. Hooper does seem to think so, she is already infected," Mycroft interjected in a bland, businesslike tone of voice. His calm face revealed nothing, as he sat behind his desk, dressed only in shirt and vest without jacket, in way, which could be interpreted as casual, looking every inch the civil servant bureaucrat at work instead of the intrepid coordinator of a crisis situation. John understood all too well the need for a level head under duress, but none of the Holmes brothers gave any indication of actually caring that the lives at stake here might be counted in millions.

"Feel free to tell me what the hell is going on any time now," John muttered, stifling the urge to throttle the other two men in the room with him.

Mycroft gave him an indulgent smile that didn't even pretend to be anything but fake. Sherlock turned to stare intimidatingly at the darkened window. "Frederick Keller was an eminent virologist occasionally consulting with the US Department of Defence," the elder brother finally explained. "What the DIA failed to learn, however, was that he was highly susceptible to blackmail because of his interest in teenage girls, very young teenage girls, a weakness Jim Moriarty exploited, while at the height of his power, to persuade Mr. Keller to create a particularly nasty strand of Bacillus anthracis."

John cringed. "I feel so safe watched by all those CCTV cameras, while guys like these and those who put a copy of a top secret missile plan on a memory stick are in charge of our security." Mycroft's expression grew sour, but it was a bitter triumph, given the dire situation they were in. "It wasn't just that key-code that Moriarty dangled in front of you, was it?" the doctor asked, realisation drawing.

"Yes, my brother didn't share my entire biography with a homicidal madman just for that," Sherlock said with disdain, whirling around. Mycroft had the good graces to look chastened. It didn't look like the strain of betrayal on his and Sherlock's relationship had worn out with the passing years. "Mycroft, I told you when I found Keller that in order for the bacteria to be viable means of blackmail, he had to have developed a vaccine as well. Either that, or he would've done it for self-preservation. He loved himself too much not to. Surely four years would have been enough for both our and the American secret services to identify it."

"Could you two put the sibling rivalry on hold for a second and tell me just how nasty this bug is?" John interjected.

Mycroft's dispirited expression heralded no good news. "It's of course resistant to any known treatment and it incubates for as long as a day, during which the infected person gives absolutely no indication of being ill. The pulmonary symptoms are then the first to present followed shortly by the skin lesions. Luckily the black lacerations this particular strand incurs are perfectly star-shaped, which makes it easy to identify. Unfortunately, these recognisable signs only occur mere hours before death that can intervene eight to fifteen hours after the first lung problems presented."

Cold dread settled into the pit of John's stomach and the air in the room became suddenly difficult to inhale. He cleared his throat, willing the sensation to pass. It wasn't just Molly trapped in that deadly abandoned hospital. Neither Sherlock nor his brother had been very forthcoming with any other names, but he instinctively suspected he knew many of the people there. They were also not fully certain the infection hadn't already gotten out in the city. The police had found the dead body as a result of an anonymous tip later traced to a public phone phone not far away from the scene of the crime, but that could have been anyone from the culprit to a scared witness not desiring to give his name.

He eyed Mycroft with disbelief. "All this time did you really not bother to at least find out if there weren't any previously undiscovered samples?"

The man who was supposed to practically be the British government turned his head to cast his brother a pointed look. "All samples to have entered the country have been turned over to our American counterparts, who also took it upon themselves to solve the problem of Mr. Keller," Mycroft responded, his voice perfectly neutral. "We were later told he had had an accident while in custody."

John scoffed, glad he was sitting down while being relayed such piece of news. It was Sherlock who spoke first, though. "And I don't suppose he told them anything of importance before succumbing to this fate."

Mycroft shook his head no. "Who in Jim Moriarty's former network do you believe to be responsible for tonight?"

"Nobody," Sherlock replied stone-faced. The only indication that he was under stress came from the white-knuckled way in which he was gripping the window ledge. "I made sure that every last one of them are in prisons all over the world. We both know there's no trace left of Molly's helping me during that time. Even if it were, the existence of this bacteria wasn't the kind of knowledge Moriarty would impart to his foot-soldiers. Moran was in charge of transporting the samples that got here and he made sure none of his accomplices survived to tell the tale."

"So do you really think that Molly was at that crime scene by accident?" John wondered out loud.

"I don't have enough data to confirm it, but so far no reason to doubt it, either. Lestrade informs me there was a shortage of pathologists at the Scotland Yard tonight because of overlapping downtime. Molly happened to be on call tonight. You, brother, can of course verify if there isn't anything else at play here," Sherlock said while striding to the chair, the back of which had his coat and scarf. "We'd already know if the work on that sample of the bacteria you kept without telling the Americans had turned up a cure, wouldn't we, Mycroft?"

John looked between the two siblings in alarm, as they chose that precise moment to have a staring match.

"What do you think?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock snarled. "Spectacular work with that as well, dear brother," he taunted while donning his coat. "It was not Moran. Like you, I have been keeping an eye on him and I believe mine among his fellow prisoners was much more effective than your spies among the guardians. Moran has settled quite nicely at Pentonville. He is well-respected and treated like a king by the rest of the inmates. It's the first time in his life that has happened and I surmise he quite enjoys it. He won't lift a finger to jeopardise that. This was one of your people, Mycroft. It's the only remaining possibility. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get in touch with my homeless network and find out how the culprit chose his or her victim, who, by the way, is the best clue we have right now."

"You think I don't know that?" Mycroft countered, his voice rising a little. "I have people scouring this city for anyone associated with the deceased."

Sherlock was most likely tying his scarf too tightly around his neck. "The deceased's associates have no use for your concept of civic duty! They won't talk to someone they don't know about one of their own."

With those final words, he spun on a heel and started briskly for the door. John arched a brow briefly at Mycroft before quickly getting out of his chair and following the Detective.

"Do keep me informed of your internal inquiry," Sherlock rasped from the doorway and without turning to face his elder brother again.

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

A former operating block had been temporarily fitted with everything required for a high-risk post-mortem. Molly admired the efficiency of Sherlock's enigmatic older brother. With the panic of the discovery gone, the gruesome state of the body was now even more jarring. In about a day that could be her and any and all of the officers just two floors down from where she was. Repeating her mental mantra of not dwelling on that particular thought, she advanced towards the dead body lying on the brand new slab.

Tonight had been the first time she had had direct contact with the ravages of this strand of Anthrax. In the past, she had based the pathology advice she had given Sherlock on his discovery of the biological weapon Moriarty had acquired only on excruciatingly detailed photographs and medical reports. She briefly wondered, as she identified herself for the many cameras in the room, how she could not have seen the monster in the plain and timid Jim from the IT Department. Was Sherlock right and were all people unobservant idiots stumbling through life with no idea of most of the things going on around them? Or was it her who was the defective one?

The electronic eyes were not the only ones watching her. There were five other people in bio-hazard suits in the makeshift mortuary. Three of them had already identified themselves as doctors of various specializations: a pathologist ready to take over, if she came down early with symptoms of the infection, a virologist and immunologist. The other two had yet to address her. Molly had asked nothing of them, either, all the focus she could spare on the task at hand.

# # #

Her hands were shaking slightly, as she disrobed of the protection wear put on specifically for the autopsy. The adrenaline high was starting wear off. She was otherwise calm. The procedure had given her something to do, warding off the worst of her anxiety. The preliminary conclusions, though not surprising, were less comforting. Steeling herself for what lay ahead, she returned to a corridor profusely smelling of formaldehyde and was promptly shepherded to what looked like a small command centre filled with computers and monitors displaying startlingly clear CCTV images of the building that was buzzing with activity. From there she was shown into a smaller chamber, also illuminated by mounted LEDs, but only equipped with a small table bare safe for a laptop, and metallic chair. The man in the oversized plastic suit having accompanied her in pulled the door shut on his way out, leaving her alone.

A second later the laptop switched on without her touching it and Mycroft Holmes filled the screen. Taking a deep breath, she inched herself closer. Sherlock's brother sat behind his desk in his deceptively modest office, dressed in one of his customary pinstripe three-pieces suit, regarding her in that imperious and vaguely patronising manner that never failed to make her feel like an insect.

"I take you have confirmed the presence of the strain of Anthrax Dr. Keller created," Mycroft said in a carefully measured tone.

Molly pulled the chair back, the metal screeching against the rugged floor, and sat down. "Yes, even without the blood tests, the extreme and very specific damage it causes to the respiratory organs would have been unmistakable. The victim did not inhale the spores, however, he was injected with a massive amount of live bacteria. I found a needle mark on his neck. I estimate death intervened approximatively twenty-two hours after that. A weakened immune system and malnutrition contributed to it."

He nodded at all crucial points, while she summarized her findings, his piercing eyes never straying from her face. She had no doubt he could read the fear and misgivings lurking beneath her ineffectual professional façade. "Are the results of our blood cultures ready?" she asked after a pause, during which neither spoke.

His expression grew solemn. "You are infected, Dr. Hooper. And so are 87% of those present at the initial crime scene."

This came as no surprise. She had been mere inches from a body rife with spores with only a flimsy surgical mask as protection, before she had noted the peculiar eschar. She reminded herself to keep her composure. Hysterics would change nothing of the dire reality. "Those not infected at first contact are not safer, either, because they have been breathing the same air with the rest of us who were," she estimated gloomily, her voice more or less steady.

"Sherlock believes Dr. Keller might have manufactured a vaccine as a fail-safe."

She shook her head. "Even if he did, he would have had no opportunity for complete clinical trials or any, for that matter. At best, it would be unstable."

The man tilted his head to the side, seeming to consider her carefully. "Are you volunteering as a test subject then?" he asked, though his voice betrayed no curiosity but rather certainty.

Molly clicked her tongue louder than she would have liked, pursuing her lips nervously, no longer able to sustain his inquisitive gaze. If there could be something more unnerving than the agonising death awaiting her, then that was the idea of Mycroft Holmes rifling through her head, aware of her innermost thoughts before she even conceived them. "I am the best candidate. My lungs suffered severe trauma nineteen mouths ago. If it works on me, it would definitely work on the the rest. If it doesn't, you don't risk killing someone healthier, who might have a chance with a cocktail of more conventional treatments. I'm also probably the lowest security risk. I have no family who could pester the government with questions, should any rumours get out, and you can easily control my only friend using her family. If your brother protests, you'll have this video as evidence that it was all my doing."

"You forgot the eventuality of your survival, however low the odds?"

She leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. "That would be between Sherlock and me."

"He wouldn't see this as an act of selflessness but as a betrayal of him personally, an abandonment of sorts, in order to save virtual strangers. He would never forgive you."

She had a feeling he was speaking from personal experience, but it wasn't the moment to expand on that, even if he were the man to talk about the uneasy relationship with his brother. "I'll have to live first," she said morosely and it might have been a glitch of the camera or a trick of light, but she thought she saw something not unlike pity briefly cross his otherwise impassible features. "Anything else?" she wanted to know.

"As a matter of fact, yes," he replied, laying back in his chair. "Nobody but you among those infected are aware of the situation and we would like to keep it that way."

That got her attention. "You're not even sure there's a cure and you don't think these people deserve to know what's happening to them?"

"And how will the certainty of a slow and painful death comfort them?" he inquired.

Molly bristled. Neither had the time for her to give him a lecture on the whole spectrum of human emotion, a concept, she suspected, he only grasped as an intellectual possibility. "Knowing would be preferable to spending their last hours hopelessly wondering what was going to happen to them," she explained as succinctly as she could, while standing up. "Either way, with all due respect for your position on this, Mr. Holmes, I'm telling them."

He looked up at her from the screen, giving the impression that he was the one currently towering over her. "Then I'm afraid I must keep you isolated, Miss Hooper."

She refused to back down. "And I'm afraid I must pinch a mobile from one of your men and add to the problems between you and your brother."

She had the curt satisfaction of seeing surprise plastered all over his face. "Are you blackmailing me?" he asked in such way that it seemed that the very notion sounded preposterous to him.

Molly worried at her lower lip with her teeth, realising the full enormity what she had just done. "Under the circumstances, Mr. Holmes, what do I have to loose?"

Mycroft's grin was benevolent to a worrying extreme. "Just remember that what you are contemplating is treason."

He leaned closer and pressed a key on his own laptop. The screen went dark. Through it all, his unseemly smile had never wavered and never reached his cold eyes. Molly felt a chilling shiver run up her spine. If his intention had been to rattle her while at the same time reminding her of her patriotic duty, he had succeeded. Strangely enough, people appeared to think Sherlock was the psychopath in the family.

# # #

Mycroft didn't follow through with his threat to isolate her and she was lead through the maze of corridors to a large ward filled with beds separated by plastic curtains. The place was inundated by an eerie blue luminescence. Sterilizing UV light. A doctors and nurses stations had been installed by the entrance with plexiglas walls separating it from what the people there, who were obviously among those misfortune to be infected first. She followed the instructions numbly, as a fresh sample of her blood was taken and then she was given an injection. She was busy calculating how long they had left.

The nurse offered her a tight smile and apparently aware that she was talking to a medical professional, told her about the contents of the cocktail of antibiotics she had just received. Molly thanked her and asked to see the attending physician, to whom she relied a condensed version of her history with Oxycodone as her reason for not wanting any narcotics, no matter how bad the pain. He confirmed he understood and assured her no paperwork was necessary. Given the situation, it made perfect sense.

No sooner had she stepped further into the room in search of an unoccupied bed, that Sally snatched her hand and pulled her into the the meagre privacy of her tiny would-be reserve. The policewoman's eyes were wide with fear. "Do you know what's wrong with us?" she asked right off the bat.

Molly sat herself on the other woman's bed, not letting go her hand, which she squeezed in reassurance. "The victim died of Anthrax. Everybody in this place has it," she said softly.

Sally nodded, looking away. "That's not so bad, is it? There are antibiotics and vaccines for that now."

"Not against this strand, Sally." She paused and they sat side by side in a tension-fraught silence for a while.

Finally Sally turned her head to face her. "So we're all going to die."

Molly shook her head. "There's a chance the man who did this also made an antidote." Sally stared at the floor beyond her feet that were dangling restlessly over the edge of the elevated bed. "I know it's a lot to ask," Molly began anew. "But I need you to help me tell the others. The people in charge here are certainly not gonna do it."

"How do you know all this, Molly?"

"Sherlock... ."

Sally released a pained sigh at the name and Molly watched despair spread on her face.

"I know what you think of him," Molly said, attempting to sound heartening. "But if there's a vaccine out there somewhere, he'll find it. He'll save us, you'll see," she promised.

The look on Sally's face, when she eyed the pathologist once more, told the latter that she truly wanted to believe that, regardless of her disdain for Molly's knight in dark Belstaff.

"You have that much faith in him?" Sally questioned.

Molly nodded vehemently. "Yes. And I'm right. You'll see," she repeated, willing all her hope and trust in Sherlock into her voice.

Sally gave her a small, bitter smile and placed her other hand over their already joined ones. "Molly... how long do we have?"

"Not accounting for different times of exposure and pre-existing respiratory and immunity problems, between sixteen and twenty-three hours, depending on the organism," she elaborated grimly.

"But we all feel fine."

"This one incubates slowly."

Sally released her hand and jumped off the bed. "Well, we all have to die someday," she said philosophically.

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: my deepest and sincerest thanks to anyone who left reviews on my story. A special thank you goes to all those who commented anonymously. Reviews of any kind are more than welcome on my fic, my only regret being that I cannot personally reply to all those wonderful and insightful anonymous readers! Your kind thoughts are, however, very much appreciated! Please keep them coming. :)

# # #

The young woman's story came in bits and pieces, as John stood ineffectually a foot or two away, while Sherlock sat next to her on a thick cement block. It smelled foul there, in whatever urban catacomb by the Thames they were in, but every now and then a faint gust of wind brought the scent of fresh water to relieve the worst of the odour. He had always been bad at this part of what the Consulting Detective did, namely the interaction with the homeless network. For someone from such a posh background, Sherlock was strangely comfortable amid what society saw as the lowest of the low, among the outcast and the most poor, even among the criminal. It had taken them about three hours of going from contact to contact until they found somebody who knew the man killed by Anthrax.

"Ned was good... even when he heard all those voices, he never got angry. He protected me... and others. His sister came to find him from time to time. She had food and kept trying to take him away, to the doctors... but Ned hated the pills. They made him sleepy... but she still came...," she paused to sniffle and Sherlock got to his feet.

"Show me where he slept," the Detective commanded.

Ned slept in a large carton box under a partially demolished arcade. Sherlock rifled through his things for less than a minute, until he held up an old, dirty photograph of two young children to examine briefly under the illumination provided by his flash light.

"You think she was involved," John mused out loud.

"In a way," Sherlock responded before pocketing the picture and starting for the main road.

John hastened after him. "Where are we going?"

"His sister's flat," Sherlock replied as he flagged down a taxi.

"Shouldn't we warn Mycroft first so his people can check if it's not contaminated?" John whispered conspiratorially without getting into the car.

Sherlock ignored him and climbed into the cab. Left with nothing better to do, John followed his friend, hoping the man knew what he was doing as he always did and that Molly's recent predicament hadn't clouded his typically impeccable judgement.

# # #

Sherlock didn't utter a word during their entire ride to a Soho address he uncharacteristically hadn't explained how he got. He gave the cabbie precise instructions as to what route to take and asked that they were driven there as fast as possible in a no-nonsense voice but still maintaining a flimsy appearance of politeness. Then he turned his head to study the London night scenery as it flew by them. John cast a few covert glances to his friend's profile and made a few aborted attempts at conversation, to which Sherlock paid no heed. The look on his face could go either way: it could be interpreted both brooding and being deep in thought, with the latter not being unusual for the Detective while on a case.

At their destination, Sherlock again paid no attention to John's warnings, and broke into the woman's flat. The Detective switched on the light and spared less than a second to look around, while emphatically sniffing the air, then crossed to the far door to the left, which he pushed open. A brunette woman in her late thirties lay in the bathtub, her body obscured by the bloody water, her head inert against the edge, wide-opened eyes staring desolately at the far wall. John felt an unwelcome twist in his chest. She was too still to be alive. He tiptoed to the bathtub, self-conscious about the noise he made, and leaned closer. She wasn't breathing and had no carotid pulse. If the circumstances were not clear enough, the sheer despair etched onto the her face was enough of an indicative that this was exactly what it looked like: suicide. He glanced at Sherlock for confirmation. There was no change in the Detective's demeanour.

"That wasn't Anthrax," Sherlock said pointedly, mocking John's earlier attempts at caution, before whirling around, coat fanning his every step.

John trailed after him. "Shouldn't we ring...?"

"She's dead. An ambulance won't do her any good, Doctor," Sherlock said dryly, booting the woman's laptop on the living-room table.

John sighed at a loss, as he watched the other man type the password protecting the computer with barely a minute of thinking beforehand and then scan through the victim's emails. No matter how often John had the opportunity to witness it and regardless of how dire a situation, he could never quite get used to his friend's utter disrespect for the dead.

"We could phone Mycroft and tell him we found the sister of the first Anthrax victim," John tried again, watching Sherlock start to type an email message in the name of the dead woman.

Sherlock grimaced in distaste. "I told him to screen his MOD people more carefully," he muttered as if to himself.

"What? She's MOD?"

"Or something in the vicinity," Sherlock explained in his rapid-fire manner. "And we didn't just find a relative, we found the culprit, or at least, one half of it."

John swore he felt his heart constrict in his chest. If this woman were responsible and seeing as she was dead, their chances at finding an antidote had dropped out of existence.

"Tourist cruise brochures on the console table," Sherlock spoke in a calculatedly factual tone of voice, as if he had sensed John's incipient panic. Maybe he had. But then again maybe it was too much of an empathetic response to hope for. "Seychelles, Maldives and the Dominican Republic. All countries Britain has no extradition treaty with. All countries you can slip to under the guise of a sea cruise and without the hassle of airport verifications. Once there, you can easily disappear to other less obvious destinations. Only she wouldn't leave without her mentally-ill brother, on whom she obviously never gave up. Not quite easy baggage to lug around, when you're a fugitive having blackmailed your own government out of what I presume was supposed to be an exorbitant sum of money. So the partner got rid of him, while at the same time sending out the message that they have Keller's bacteria. He or she made one mistake, though." He clicked on the send option with more firmness than it was strictly necessary then pulled out his mobile to send a text, continuing to speak as he did. John read the text upside-down. It contained only two words, a name: Myrtle Hill.

"He underestimated her attachment to her brother," Sherlock elaborated. "Guilt and love is a fatal combination of two equality ferocious motivators, as evidenced by the body in the bathroom. So she kills herself, fortunately, in her distress, without sending him the signal to ask for the reward."

Sherlock put his phone in one of his coat pockets and strode briskly to the exit. John wisely decided to shelve the Detective's cruel description of love for later and settle for clearing up the most incredible aspect of the situation. "Hold on, so they were communicating about all this by email?"

The right corner of Sherlock's mouth pulled up smugly. "They used code, but stream ciphers are predictable enough."

"Of course they are," John murmured, as they walked out of the flat and into the corridor, casually strolling past a neighbour eyeing them warily. "Where are we going?" he asked, while they were in the process of leaving the building the same way they had entered in: via fire escape.

"To meet the partner," Sherlock said as if that should have been obvious all along. John sighed again and followed without complaint.

# # #

Sherlock slammed the door to his brother's office in John's face, locking it for good measure, when his friend wanted to join him inside. From behind his desk, Mycroft arched a questioning eyebrow at him. John's irritated grumbling in the vestibule could be well heard through the thick wood. Sherlock met Mycroft's eyes with a determination of his own.

"Five minutes alone with him, Mycroft. No recordings."

"We have people trained in such matters, Sherlock," his brother admonished in that tiresomely patronising tone he favoured.

"Who couldn't get a word out of Moriarty," he reminded Mycroft, indulging in a smirk as an uncomfortable expression descended on the elder man's visage.

"He is not James Moriarty." Mycroft was apparently bent on winning this one.

"I would have had the vaccine already, if your men hadn't decided to interrupt at the most inopportune of moments." Sherlock advanced into the room to keep himself from pacing, his patience wearing thin.

"Need I remind you that it was John Watson who wouldn't let you let a finger on him."

Sherlock shrugged, stopping a few paces away from the desk, purposely towering over his brother. "How else was I supposed to prevent him from escaping? Now that he is restrained, I see no reason to touch him again."

Mycroft reached for the receiver of one of the phones on the desk, still eyeing Sherlock far too carefully. "You need him alive to talk, Sherlock."

The younger brother only made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

# # #

The tiny cell was enveloped in a strong, white light the psychological impact of which was supposed to be amplified by the large, square mirrors on every wall. Sherlock suppressed a sigh at the theatrics. The man cuffed to the gleaming metallic chair in the middle of the room glared defiantly at his visitor from the moment the door had opened to admit him in. Sherlock ignored him in favour of staring straight at one of the cameras in the corner.

"Switch it off," he said calmly.

# # #

Mycroft kept his eyes on the screen of the laptop before him, as he watched the man who had previously had the gal of stealing together with his MOD-employed virologist girlfriend a sample of a deadly Anthrax bacteria, in order to use it to blackmail the government with it, tell his tale for the once again operating surveillance cameras in his holding cell. There were no signs of physical violence on the prisoner, as far as he could see, yet the man looked shaken both mentally and physically. His hands on his knees trembled, sweat ran down his terrified face, the fear accentuating his laugh lines. His eyes were also wide with it, as well as slightly puffy, as if he had recently been crying. His voice wavered, as he spoke, yet the words came out unfalteringly. He was looking anywhere but at Sherlock, who stood a several feet away, his face hardened, yet cool. His eyes, however, were pure ice, though they stayed on his reflection in the mirror opposite from him rather than the other person in the room with him.

"Myrtle was brilliant... really she was... she noticed the antidote was hidden inside the bacteria itself. It's like a suicide trigger. You inject it and they die. Then all you have to do is treat the symptoms." His eyes darted briefly to Sherlock, the sight of whom made him shudder visibly, before quickly averting his gaze. "The trigger... she said you have to make it from the bacteria... the same way you would from the Vollum strain of the regular one... like... ."

"Anthrax Vaccine Adsorbed," Sherlock finished for him, the Detective's voice almost tranquil, as he stepped stalked to the door.

Phone in hand, Mycroft relied the necessary instructions at utmost speed, ordering the tape of the confession also transmitted to the medical team for any eventuality. Only then he turned to look at John at his side. The doctor looked as unsettled as Mycroft felt.

"What do you think Sherlock did to that man?" his brother's only friend asked, his voice uncertain, as he no doubt dreaded the answer.

Mycroft pursed his lips together and refused to give a reply. Truth was he didn't know. A part of him didn't want to contemplate it, either. Typically Mycroft didn't draw too many lines in the sand and even with those, he made sure he didn't employ them too often. The nature of his job simply didn't allow him to, even if he had been inclined to do so, which he normally wasn't. He hadn't been raised to indulge himself into the pathos of a conscience. However, he had still long since noted that this was yet another area, in which he and his baby brother differed. Perhaps it came from the strong emotional side that usually his brother repressed with great success, but Mycroft had identified an edge in Sherlock, one he couldn't fully put his finger on and, which sadly, his psychology readings insufficiently explained. But it was diamond-sharp and if brought to the surface, Mycroft speculated that it would cut anyone within reach.

If he were prone to dramatics, he would call that edge darkness, but since he wasn't, he contented himself with insisting that the two of them belonged to the same side, where Mycroft could stand guard so the worst of his brother would never flare to life How ironic that it did on a day, when they were in fact, working together towards a common goal. It was a sobering blow to the notion that whatever disquieted him about his brother could be brought under anyone's control, including his own.

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

A somewhat familiar voice shook her out of the fog of a hazy dream of darkness and pain. It was not, however, the deep masculine baritone that woke her up on some of her most haunted nights. If it got too late, he sometimes stayed the night, reprising his spot on her living-room couch. He had a very light sleep and came right away, if she heard her trashing or weeping. It had been his idea to share the bed, first on top of the covers, then at a safe distance from her underneath them. Molly had never pushed and recently he had taken to tentatively holding her as they slept.

She didn't open her eyes to the safety of her bedroom, either. The plastic bathed in blue light made her feel sick to her stomach as the memories of where she was and why came tumbling back. She sat up abruptly looking at Sally Donovan's worried face.

"I'm right next door," the copper said pointing to her right. "And I heard you whimpering in your sleep. I think you had a bad dream."

Molly nodded, smoothing a few loose strand that had fallen out of her ponytail behind her ears. "I still have nightmares of being stabbed," she explained cautiously shaking her head in an semi-conscious effort to clear her mind. "Has anyone started to show any symptoms?"

The expression on Sally's face was raw, as she slowly nodded. "Detective-Inspector Dimmock and one of the constables." She peered through the crack the curtains made at the entrance of the makeshift ward. "Something's happened right before I woke you up. The doctors and the nurses got agitated all of the sudden."

A fresh burst of adrenaline dispelled the last of the mist of her uneasy sleep. Molly untangled herself from the sheets and jumped out of bed, pulling at the cotton of her T-shirt to make it settle properly. "Stay here," she told Sally. "I'll go and try to find out if there's news of an antidote."

Sally straightened herself up. "Wouldn't we have a better chance of that, if we go together?"

"Not if you want to mysteriously disappear the day after your recovery," she whispered leaning closer to make sure she was heard. The other woman was frowning in increasing concern. "I... mmm... well, I know people in high places."

Sally seemed sceptical at that, but there was no way Molly would allowed her have more interaction than necessary with anyone working for Mycroft Holmes. She doubted the puppet master would make a personal appearance, but either way, she wasn't about to risk exposing to him anyone who didn't have even the meagre protection of being his brother's girlfriend. God only knew what that man was capable of in order to keep his secrets.

She made herself give Sally the most reassuring look she could muster. "Please, just wait here... please." Sally still seemed to vacillate. "I'll be back shortly," Molly promised before darting out.

It turned out that she didn't have to talk to the doctors at all. Upon seeing her approach, a brunette woman in a protective suit standing guard by the plexiglass medical station gave her a nod of recognition and signalled to Molly to follow her out and into the corridor. UV light dispensers had been installed there as well and the potent stench of formaldehyde prickled at Molly's nose. Her companion extended a hand covered in a thick white glove to her. There was a small silvery mobile in her palm. Molly took it with a muttered 'thank you'. A few seconds later it rang. Molly pressed it to her ear.

"How are you feeling, Miss Hooper?" Mycroft asked in a deceptively benevolent voice.

Her breath caught in her throat, which Molly cleared nervously. "Fine for now," she replied, hearing her own voice crack with tension. "Did Sherlock find the vaccine?"

"Yes, he did."

Molly swallowed past the rising nausea to formulate a reply that she hoped sounded collected. "I thought we had an agreement. Or did the doctors indicate another, better test subject?"

"It's not a vaccine per se, Miss Hooper. It's a BioThrax variation adapted to this particular strain which is supposed to act like a suicide trigger for the bacteria. This is all based on the theoretical speculation of a scientist who later stole it to use it as means of extortion and who was of opinion that Frederick Keller hid the cure inside the very weapon he created."

Molly licked her lips. "This mutation of Bacillus anthracis has no known Vollum strain," she murmured, throat dry.

"True," he replied. "Our experts synthesized the would-be vaccine from the original one itself."

She hesitated, wondering what he wanted to hear from her: an admission that she was scared out of her mind or that she didn't want to die. She was indeed frightened, terrified in fact, and no, she didn't want to die. But neither did the people in the room behind her. She also understood that this was his own, convoluted, way of protecting his brother from the presumptive pain of her death, but they were all locked in a no-exit situation.

"So you have no way of knowing whether you're not just killing us faster by using it." She sucked in a deep breath. "Does Sherlock know you've finished synthesizing the vaccine?"

"Not yet," Mycroft answered indulgently.

Molly didn't feel like there was anything left to say. She cringed at the mere thought of passing any potential death-bed message to Sherlock through his emotionally-distant brother. It seemed invasive and inappropriate. She wondered if Mycroft dreaded that she would do this but had rung her anyway out of a sense of fraternal duty. Perhaps. Who could ever know what went on in that man's head? She could always ask him to just give Sherlock the phone and gave it a 50-50 chance that he would do so. However, she couldn't trust herself to go through with what she was planning, if she were to speak to him. She doubted she was strong enough.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," she said politely and handed the mobile to the woman standing not far away form her.

# # #

John slipped into his darkened flat as quietly as he could. It was close to four in the morning and he didn't want to disturb Mary. He hadn't been home in nearly forty-eight hours, but his more than understanding wife never complained, honouring the agreement they had come to even before their engagement. Guiding himself by memory, he moved to switch on his bedside lamp. The glow was soft, barely illuminating the room, but Mary still shifted in her sleep. Thankfully, she didn't wake. He paused to take a longer look at her, drinking in the beautiful sight before him, as his heart swelled with tenderness. He was so lucky to have her here, sleeping in their bed, safe and alive and healthy. All his previous concerns about minding her sleep flew right out of the window and he reached over to gently shake her awake.

"Mary," he prompted, surprised to hear his voice almost crack.

Dark-blue eyes opened to look at him blearily before taking in his expression and filling with concern. There was a faint pillow imprint on the side of her lovely face.

"John, what's happened? What's wrong?" she asked in a voice still hoarse with sleep.

Her warm hand came to rest on his cheek, fingers caressing his skin tenderly. He shivered slightly at the touch. "I love you," he breathed, drawing her into his arm and squeezing her to his chest. He buried his face into her sage-scented hair and inhaled deeply, fighting the onslaught of tears.

"I know," she whispered against the material of his jumper. "I love you, too."

# # #

Mycroft scanned the latest reports on the containment of the Anthrax incident. Considering the initial auspices, the situation had been wrapped up rather nicely. The bacteria hadn't gotten into the city and the culprit had confessed to making the anonymous 999 phone call that had drawn the police to the infected building, meaning he had no additional witness to worry about. They had also looked into the computer mix-up a the Met, but the extensive verification had revealed it to be just another bureaucratic error. Though now thoroughly decontaminated, the derelict hospital would be quietly demolished in the upcoming weeks under a convenient excuse.

He had also informed his American colleagues of the existence of the antidote, careful to leave out the part about keeping a sample of the bacteria all along. If anyone suspected him, they were wise enough not to mention it. After all, he knew enough of their secrets as well. All that was left to deal with was the information leak caused by Molly Hooper of all people telling the infected the truth about what had happened to them. Fortunately, they were all on the Scotland Yard payroll and so used to obeying a hierarchy and keeping quiet about certain issues. Either way, it was no hardship threatening them with the loss of a career, for which they all had worked hard, and a salary they depended on, if anyone grew daring about what they knew. He made a mental note to install surveillance on those exposed to make sure they all behaved.

Closing his laptop, he stood and went to pour himself a glass of brandy. The crisis had been more or less averted. However, disquieting thoughts refused to leave him. He sipped from his drink, staring the first rosy light of the dawn breaking outside his office window. Moriarty might be gone and his former criminal network might be safely locked away and for all intents and purposes neutralised, but his dark legacy lived on in the form of metaphorical boxes of equally metaphorical scorpions scattered all over the world. This had not been the first instance when someone had opened one and unleashed something poisonous from within. Presumably it wouldn't be the last.

He wondered if the criminal genius had foretold this, if he had killed himself knowing that his enemies would never be truly free of him, basking in the knowledge of the many traps left behind for either an heir to the throne or an unsuspecting idiot to walk into. Not even having the bacteria all along had offered any safeguard against it and a disaster had been avoided only at the last possible moment. He took another swig of his drink, the fine liquid suddenly sour on his palate, as he recalled just how the carnage had been prevented. Their amateur terrorist was still not speaking about what had transpired between him and Sherlock for the exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds missing camera time. The suspect panicked at the mere mention of Sherlock and completely clamped up, though he was more than willing to talk about his wrongdoings.

He swirled the remaining alcohol in his glass, as he advanced towards the window, puzzling over just how thin the line separating his only brother from the homicidal maniac who had almost destroyed him once. He had hoped that Sherlock would bury the similitude together with his dead nemesis, but even then reason had warned against it. Yet the threads of connection spun by Sherlock in the past few years had against all odds endured and seemed to anchor him definitively to the right side. There had been a relief of some sorts to see Sherlock finally make a true friend, find a home and settle into a relationship, no matter how tentative. He foresaw one of those links becoming strenuous in the near future, perhaps even snapping altogether. Adding that to the past two days and he could feel old worries springing to new life.

Finishing his brandy, he decided to drop by The Diogenes Club for breakfast before heading to take care of a particular security risk in person.

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

Molly looked around the small, sterile white ward she was in, the unease she was feeling dislodging the pain in her chest. She didn't know where she was, nor had she been told anything by the nameless doctors and nurses who had come to see to her in the hours since she had woken up here, wherever that was. The last thing she remembered was being given the vaccine against the Keller Anthrax strain and developing violent pulmonary symptoms merely an hour later. She had been suffocating and in pain, when her body had gone into what had to have been shock and she had slipped into unconsciousness.

She had opened her eyes in this place, dizzy and confused, still on the respirator that had later been removed. It had initially taken all of strength to answer questions about her symptoms and only after a while had she been clear-headed enough to piece together the nightmare of the contamination. Concern about the infected coppers had come barrelling in and she had both insisted and begged for news of them. To no avail. Since nobody around her was in any protective wear, she assumed the antidote had worked, at least on her. She was also sick with worry for Sherlock, John and anyone else involved in finding out who had done this. But nobody was telling her anything, not even the time of day.

She was distracted from her dark thoughts by the door opening to admit in Mycroft Holmes, who looked like he was making a social call, his expression calm and affable, safe for his eyes. They were scrutinizing her with such intensity that she all but suspected him of seeing through her skin and into her internal organs, the state of which he was currently assessing. Molly felt tempted to draw herself up on the bed and away from the man entering the room. It was more than her usual wariness of the man. She recalled quite distinctly blackmailing him and then blowing the whistle on the contagion. She was fairly certain she was going to prison for the rest of her life.

"Good morning, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said with an insincere smile.

So the bleary light trickling through the only window in the ward was morning light. Molly struggled to sit up a bit. "Did you come to see to my arrest?" she asked in a tremulous voice.

His smiled widened a fraction before disappearing. "No." He inched himself closer, making a show of using his long umbrella as a sort of cane.

Molly wondered if her blood running cold wouldn't worsen her medical condition. "But... I... I... I blackmailed you... and... l... l... leaked sensitive intelligence... it's treason... you said so yourself."

He stopped by the bed, towering over her prone form, regarding her solemnly, his eyes boring into her skull. Molly felt shrunk to an inch tall.

"Don't do it again," he all but whispered, his tone soft, conspiratorial. For some reason she found that even more intimidating. Mycroft drew himself to his full height. "You shall, of course, sign a confidential agreement in accordance to the Official Secrets Act." His eyes grew more severe. "And you will not discuss any of these events with a third party or with anyone already aware of them. As far as you are concerned, nothing happened."

The last two sentences shook her out of the daze of self-preservation and stirred old worries. "Ssso... so everyone's all right then?" she asked, hope leaking into her voice.

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted and his benign smile returned. "Yes, everyone survived. There have been several cases of respiratory complications, but nothing that can't be treated in the long run. Are you not curious about your own condition?"

Molly willed herself to relax. Her chest was constricted and it was becoming a little difficult to breathe. "I was given an untested vaccine. I assume the dosage was wrong."

His brows knitted together in thought. "Correct. The elevated dosage combined with your refusal of analgesics put a considerable strain on your heart." He removed a brown leather notebook from his coat and thumbed through it until he reached the page he needed. "You were diagnosed with stress-induced cardiomyopathy. Additionally, you will have extensive lung scarring and be predisposed to respiratory infections."

"Broken heart syndrome," she muttered wryly, staring at the bed covers. That explained the chest pain, the shortness of breath and the beta blockers she had noticed being given. "It's temporary," she said louder, still not looking back at Sherlock's brother. "When can I go home?" she wanted to know, shaking herself out of the funk of a bad feeling.

"In a few days. You are on a holiday from the hospital for the next two weeks. I wouldn't concern myself about your pet, though. I am certain Mary Watson would look after it."

Some of the fight returned to her spirit and she raised her head to give him what was probably the world's most ineffectual glare. Mycroft looked perfectly superior and smug, as he arranged her life to his liking for weeks to come. She would have loved to have some way of retaliating, but in the end she opted for keeping her mouth shut, grateful to be getting out of this with only a gag order.

"Do you not want to know where you are?" he asked with a smirk.

She shrugged. "Will I have to sign something about it, too?"

Mycroft returned his coat to his interior coat pocket. "Sherlock knows where to find you," he said in a steady, hard voice.

Molly looked away. She knew instinctively that Sherlock hadn't come to see her, but she had no desire to discuss their relationship with Mycroft. Apparently getting the message and for once not meddling, the man started for the door. "Get well soon, Miss Hooper," he wished her from the threshold.

She nodded glumly. "Thank you," she said politely.

# # #

_Two months earlier_

The Imperial College School of Medicine was hosting an exposition on the beginnings of forensic pathology in 19th century Germanyand the opening included an lecture from a professor from the University of Leipzig, who was in London especially for the occasion. Always keen on learning more about the history of her profession, Molly had wanted to go and suggested he came along. Since the topic sounded interesting and she selected such events based on their level of professionalism, he had seen no reason not to accompany her.

Molly handled their connection with an astounding lack of intrusiveness. She made no demands of him or attempts to unduly insert herself into his life, content to follow the pace he set for their relationship. She was mindful of all his boundaries and never pushed at them. She had a great respect for his work and unlike John who praised his brilliance, she often remarked that what he did was important and helping people. When he solved cases such as a particularly gruesome murder or rescued a kidnap victim, Molly appeared positively grateful to him, though the matters never concerned her in the slightest. On such occasions, she came to visit him a dish she thought he would appreciate, frequently something she cooked herself. She also brought him small, useful tokens, such as an usual chemical compound he could always use for his experiments.

John mentioned once that Molly was proud of him. Sherlock had little understanding for her taking pride in something so wholly unconnected to herself, but the fact still made a foreign kind of warmth bloom in his chest. While he didn't dwell on it, he decided to research the possibility a bit and when one of Molly's articles had been exceptionally well-received by her fellow experts, he had told her he was proud of her. He had been completely unprepared for the sheer joy spreading on her luminous face and for the strength surprising in her small body with which she had hugged him, brushing her lips against his left cheek while whispering heartfelt thanks.

Gratified by the success, he tried something else Molly appreciated: greeting her work friend, Meena, whenever he saw her, regardless of whether or not he was busy with work and had no time to spare for such trivia. Meena visibly disliked him, but she always treated him perfect politeness, less than conspicuously leaving him and Molly alone, every time he dropped in. Thankfully, Molly did not pressure him into socializing with Meena or anyone else in her life beyond that. She was, however, more than happy to spend time with John and Mary, with whom Molly got along very well, much to John's joy.

Though she was enthusiastic about his experiments, it was his violin playing that delighted her in particular. She asked him to play for her every chance she had, complimented him effusively about it and inquired about authors and specifics of the music. Molly wasn't a listener of the classics, nor was she inclined towards the Baroque musicians he favoured. Her sensitivity towards the Romantics extended to ballet or the occasional opera rather than instrumental pieces, but she read on his preferences and enjoyed discussing them with him. He thought to meet her halfway and made incursions towards composers such as Brahms and Beethoven, which seemed to be more popular with Molly. He had recently discovered that she quite liked the Meditation for violin from Jules Massenet's _Thais_.

The only thing Molly was adamant about was that he apologised, when she perceived he crossed some invisible line in relation with the people around him. That happened usually with John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson and sometimes Lestrade, but it wasn't limited to them. It was only then that Molly insisted in her own gentle yet determined way that he made up for what he had said or done. He was also strictly forbidden to test anything on her exceedingly clingy and weirdly behaved cat.

He found himself into the conference room, as Molly shepherded them to their places. She never tried to attract his attention, when he was lost in thought. Herself not a very good conversationalist, Molly seemed comfortable with the long silences that sometimes governed their time together. It was then that he caught out of the corner of an eye one of the names of the sponsors and supporters listed on the banner for the event: Shad Sanderson, the City bank Sebastian Wilkes worked for. He hoped his old university acquaintance hadn't deemed the event interesting enough to make a personal appearance and had left that to the PR people. He was in no mood to expose Molly to him.

All and any thought of Sebastian was forgotten in the excitement of the conference that turned out to be every bit as engaging and informative as he had expected. He made a few notes in his mind palace, while Molly took a few written ones. He was in the process of organising the new information in his head, as they headed towards the exhibition after the lecture had ended, when they all but bumped into Sebastian.

"Sherlock, fancy seeing you here," Sebastian said, surprised, giving him a quick once-over before his attention was arrested by Molly at his side. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw her began to fidget under the scrutiny.

"Sebastian, this is Molly Hooper," Sherlock said in a tight voice, glaring at the other man, as he attempted to distract him from his study of Molly. "Sebastian and I were at Cambridge together."

"How do you do," Molly greeted in a polite, yet slightly unsteady voice.

"How do you. So are you a friend of Sherlock's?" Seb asked, disbelief laced with sarcasm colouring his voice.

"No," Molly hastened to say. "I'm his girlfriend, actually."

Sebastian's eyes bulged at her and his mouth opened, but nothing came out, as he gawked at both Molly and the distance between her and Sherlock, who only then remembered they weren't acquiescing to the social convention of holding hands. Sherlock had nothing against touching Molly's hand but disliked doing so in public and she, with her usual delicacy, never pushed.

"Girlfriend?" Sebastian rasped, his astonishment making his voice sound choked. "Congratulations, buddy. That ought to put a damper on some of the old bets at the Uni."

Sherlock winced. He knew all too well what Sebastian was talking about. Most of said bets revolving around him and women referred to how many dead bodies the police would one day find buried in his back yard. He didn't even bother pretending to be discreet, as he glanced at Molly, who was by now positively squirming. Sherlock repressed the urge to fling himself between the two and also preferably punch Seb in the face.

"A bit of an unusual place for going out, isn't it?" Sebastian remarked gesturing to the exhibition exploring over a century old autopsies.

"It was... hmmm... my idea," Molly spoke quickly before Sherlock could. "I'm a forensic pathologist."

"Oh, I see," Sebastian said in renewed surprise, eyeing her sceptically as if there were some rule against petite women, who wore canary yellow, carving up corpses.

"Seb, we'd love to stay and chat," Sherlock interjected sardonically. "But unfortunately, we have to go." He faked a smile and reached to grab Molly's hand and drag her after him. "Right now."

"It was nice meeting you," Molly threw over her shoulder, her fingers wrapping themselves tightly around his.

"Yes, yes, likewise," Sebastian mumbled in their cue.

"The exhibition is opened for another three months," Sherlock told her as they were taking their clothes from the wardrobe. "We can come back."

She gave him a lopsided smile and nodded. "I wasn't very popular at the uni, either," she finally said as he helped her into her anorak. He let his hands linger longer than necessary on her shoulders.

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock made a show of perusing the newspapers strewn around his breakfast plate under Mrs. Hudson's condemning gaze. John had been over the previous evening and let her know Molly was again in the hospital and Sherlock wasn't visiting her. Since then Mrs. Hudson had been positively insufferable about it down to nagging him all the time she had made him breakfast. His hand stilled on the page four of the Daily Star. The upper left corner had a fairly good picture of Molly - "Boffin Holmes' Sweetheart" - struggling with two Tesco bags while walking up her street. She looked ashen, but that could also come from the average quality of the photograph. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a light orange utility jacket and the caption on the photo saw fit to make a snide remark about her attire. The tabloids also seemed to have fixated on a nickname for her: Dr. Plain.

He slammed the opened newspaper on the table next to his half-eaten morning meal and ignoring Mrs. Hudson's inquisitive stare, he retreated towards the bedroom grabbing his laptop from the couch as he went. Now that she was out whatever medical facility Mycroft had spirited her to, Molly had to be psyching herself to come to see him. He knew very well what she was afraid of and he agreed with her: he had every reason to be angry with her for nearly abandoning him to save the lives of a handful of virtual strangers by testing a dangerous vaccine on herself. He was also aware that his avoidance was his way of punishing her for it.

He closed his bedroom door with a silent click and threw the laptop on the bed, before moving to stand by the window. A decent man, a better man would just let her go. Despite what John or everyone else thought, he realised when his reactions factored outside the psychological norm. He knew that being angry with your girlfriend for being altruistic was selfish and cruel, but that didn't change the fact that it she had put all those people he didn't even like above him and their relationship.

What he had once told the Woman about love being a dangerous disadvantage was true. And Molly's own love for him went beyond destructive. It chained her to an emotionally unfulfilled relationship, in which she gave and he took. It put her in constant danger from his many enemies. It increased her social isolation. It meant that her feelings for him would forever go unrequited. It wasn't that he couldn't love Molly. She was intelligent, highly qualified in a field that held great interest to him, shared some of his interests and was willing to learn more about the others. She was also loyal, dedicated and accepting of his work and needs.

But opening himself to that possibility carried risks he could never take. Breaking through the barriers walling the incipient penchant for sentiment could awaken a whole other type of violent passions within him and make the already blurry line separating him from a Jim Moriarty disappear altogether. He cared for Molly and liked her reasonably enough, but that was as far as he was willing to go. The chaos of emotion carried too many uncertainties for someone like him.

He had long since decided that being on the side with all rules meant an additional one for himself: never truly mix with the angels. John was in this aspect a safer bet than Molly, because the kind, mild-mannered doctor would not hesitate to kill, if he found the cause worthy enough or if it saved a life. Molly was the type that jumped in front of the bullet to rescue someone. Despite some surface similarities, there was nothing of his true self he could recognize in her. She was his polar opposite in every aspect that mattered. While he held back, she dedicated herself unconditionally and without restraint.

If their relationship ended, he would miss their time together for a while and then gradually detach himself from the memories. She had become too ingrained in his life for him to be able to delete her, but still he would feel nothing like the devastation a break-up would wreck into her opened, vulnerable heart. Yet leaving her at this point would be more merciful. He had told himself that he planned to marry her, because this commitment and the possibility of a child in the future would be the only things he could give her. Besides, if he were to ever consider marrying someone, it would be her. But the truth was that his decision was a purely selfish one.

Unwise as it might be, he wanted to keep Molly for himself, to soak into her love and that unflinching loyalty that had made her offer herself to him no matter what. He wanted

her, because he had been honest with her when he had told her that he wasn't the man she thought he was and still the words out of her mouth had been: "What do you need?" He wanted that devotion and the adoring way her eyes travelled over him, whenever she thought he was not paying attention. He revelled in her patience and the tenderness with which she handled every second they were together. It was immensely flattering that someone so emotionally rich and bright had chosen him and was willing to put up with so much for their relationship to work.

His proposal was motivated by sheer greed and laced with false pretences. He should warn her of what he was capable of, even if he would never intentionally harm her. But instead he had made sure no recording existed of his most recent transgression, lest there was even the smallest chance that she might see it. He should tell her, he knew he should, but he refused to allow even the slightest hint of doubt colour her faith in him. He could give her the two of the three things she wanted most from him, but never his heart. No measure of the darkness in it could ever cast a shadow on her.

She was his reward for fighting so diligently on the side of the angels and he would keep her.

# # #

_Three months earlier_

"John," he heard a familiar voice call after him and he turned to see Meena running towards him.

"This is about Saturday," he said, voicing his most recent reason for anxiety.

Molly's birthday was coming and since she wasn't a fan of large gatherings, himself, Mary, Meena, her husband and presumably Sherlock were to enjoy an afternoon tea, a rare luxury in the life of someone with the pathologist's schedule, a tea that would probably prolong into drinks in the evening. Busy with a series of ritualistic killings that had sent the tabloids into a tailspin and baffled the Met, he hadn't had the chance to discuss the matter with Sherlock, though that particular Saturday did loom ominously above his head. From the look on her face, Molly's closest friend shared his concerns.

Meena gave him a terse nod. "Yes. He'll come, right?" Meena's tone indicated she would prefer the opposite, but it wasn't like they could exclude Molly's boyfriend from the proceedings.

"He...," he began, casting an unease glance towards the doors to the mortuary where Sherlock was discussing the post-mortem of the latest victim with Molly. "He'll be there, even if I have to tranquillize him before I drag him over," he promised.

Meena made a distasteful grimace. John wished there were some way in which he could easily dismiss her legitimate worries. "Look, I already warned Archie about him and he reads your blog so nothing he says can come as too much of a shock. And I won't utter one word of reproach, no matter what. So I'm not asking for much. Just that he comes and brings gift."

John froze at the last word. Meena's eyes widened in alarm. "He does know he's supposed to bring one, right?" she asked, her voice a little shrill.

"I'll talk to him," he assured.

Panic spread onto Meena's face. "He doesn't need to bring flowers."

John winced. "I don't think it's safe for humans to touch anything Sherlock might consider a flower," he said and instantly regretted it, when Meena actually started fidgeting, which was unusual for someone as put-together as she was.

"It's easy to buy presents for Molly. She's always very happy, no matter how stupid they are. Trust me, I've been there," she said gesturing widely. "That ridiculously fluffy, mauve jumper... I plead temporary insanity, but it's from me. And she wears it. To work! Just get him to give her something small. A perfume! As long as it's flowery, she'll love it. Or a scarf."

John frowned. He couldn't remember ever seeing Molly with a scarf, but that could work with Sherlock. The Detective did have one or two himself, which had to mean he at least had an idea where to find them. He reached over and squeezed Meena's elbow in comfort.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll think of something."

That Saturday afternoon turned out to be the most tense birthday celebration he had ever attended and that included every one of his own family, occasions famed for Harry's getting drunk and causing a scene. It wasn't that Sherlock behaved like himself throughout it, but the anticipation of that served to put him on a constant edge. John had insisted they went shopping for a gift for Molly the moment the case had been solved, but the Detective had waved him off, stating that he had already acquired a present, which only sent further alarm bells ringing in the doctor's head.

On the dreaded day, he and Mary came to Molly's early, just in case she needed help setting things up. It turned out, however, that they had underestimated Molly, who not only had everything ready but also seemed to take genuine pleasure in preparing afternoon tea. He had a feeling that was why she had wanted to host one on her birthday. He felt a bit intimidated by the flowery tea set, the matching napkins garnishing the table and the brightly-coloured cake stand topped with a large pot with poppies on it. It was all very doll-house like and it made John both marvel at the contradiction in terms that was Molly Hooper and worry about Sherlock's reaction.

The Detective himself arrived on time and brought Mrs. Hudson with him, much to John's relief. The sweet, elder lady was one of the few people in the world able to shut Sherlock up every once in a while. He also brought Molly a small, pretty bouquet of violets, which shocked everyone into stunned silence. John just wondered if Mrs. Hudson had threatened him into it and planned on questioning her later about the strange token. Things only went downhill from there, because Sherlock then proceeded to use that charm he claimed to employ to make people do him favours and act actually decent for the remaining of the afternoon.

He made no verbal deductions, insulted no one and was fairly good-natured about Molly's cat trying to climb on him. Molly took it all in stride, but John and the rest remained stressed in anticipation of the moment when he got bored and went back in character. John had to give credit when due, though, because only Sherlock could make acting like a normal human being terrifying. He took a break from it, however, when giving Molly her gift in the form of a pendant that looked like a piece of polished basalt with a fossilised cephalopod in it. On the bright side, Molly seemed to genuinely like it, even as the other women in the room looked faintly ill at the thought of wearing a piece of rock with a mummified miniature of what had to be a sibling of a the monster from _Alien_.

John had almost begun to relax, especially seeing as Mary's smile was growing less strenuous by the minute, when Toby, after sneaking to eat a few of the flowers Sherlock had brought, started to violently throw up and they had to urgently find an available vet on a Saturday evening. It seemed that anything even vaguely approaching ordinary just wasn't on the cards for Sherlock's relationship with Molly. At least, the cat made it.

TBC


	27. Chapter 27

Crime scenes were usually never quiet: muffled patter of feet, wiring of equipment, shouting of orders and pinging of communicators. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, you could hear a penny drop. Not to mention the fact that the horribly mutilated body has ceased being paid any attention to and now all eyes were on her. Anderson's were bug-shaped. Even Lestrade was staring at her open-mouthed.

"And by Sherlock you meant Sherlock Holmes?" her DI finally asked in a slightly strangled voice.

Sally rolled her eyes. "Please tell me there aren't two of them."

"Why are you calling _him_ Sherlock now?" Anderson had found his voice and it sounded grating with confounded irritation.

She shot him a glare. "Because that's his name. Bloody ridiculous, if you ask me, but sill his name... ."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade repeated dumbfounded. "You want us to get Sherlock?"

"You were going to do it, anyway," she pointed out.

"Then why don't you go and fetch him," Lestrade said, but she thought he was only half-serious.

"All right," she replied, leaving her superior even more perplexed as she spun on a heel and went out.

# # #

"Get out of my house," Holmes' landlady snapped in a shrill, yet threatening voice before slamming the door in Sally's face.

It occurred to the copper, as she was shifting her weight from one leg to the other on the stairs leading to the building numbered 221 on Baker Street, that Lestrade might have set her up, feigning some of his shock to send her after Sherlock instead of facing the woman on the other side of the door himself. After all, it had been the DI who had arrested Sherlock that ill-fated evening. It made sense that the Consulting Detective's strangely protective landlady might be harbouring a grudge. Aware that a complaint for breaking the door of a sweet little old lady would not look good on her CV, she heaved a sigh and resigned herself to ringing the bell for the B flat again.

On the fifth ring the door was violently pulled open to reveal a Sherlock Holmes dressed in mismatched pyjamas, red robe and his coat that he had obviously hastily thrown over. Since it was almost nine in the evening, she chose to think that he had just gone to bed early rather than he had Molly Hooper over and Sally had just interrupted something she never ever wanted to contemplate. His ruffled hair certainly supported that frightful theory. He arched an eyebrow at her and for one horrible moment she considered the rumour around the Yard that he was psychic and could read minds.

"Where's Lestrade?" he asked in vaguely patronising tone of voice.

Sally looked over his shoulder to his landlady still hovering menacingly in the background. Lestrade had definitely set her up. "Hello," she said in a wan voice. "Er... there's been a murder. A weird one. The Detective-Inspector wants you to come take a look, if you're willing to, of course."

A corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile that was more than a little sardonic. "And he sent you to fetch me."

"Yes," she breathed, swallowing both her exasperation and her pride. "I know you won't come in a police car so I drove here myself," she added, casting a look back into the street where her hybrid was parked.

"Why don't you come and wait inside?" he asked in a suspiciously polite tone and stepped back to allow her inside.

She crossed the threshold warily, even as he sprinted up the stairs leading to his flat. The landlady positioned herself in her way, should Sally want to follow him, her eyes cold and resolute, arms folded atop her chest. Sally forced a smile that she hoped would indicate her lack of hostile intentions. The other woman refused to reciprocate, her glare only intensifying.

# # #

| Summoned to a crime scene. Come and look after my bacterial cultures. Please. |

Molly read the message twice before replying:

| Still on holiday. Can stay as long as needed but will have to bring Toby. |

| Bacteria needing 17 hours supervision. Fine on cat. |

Molly smiled sadly at her pet currently curled on her lap and ran her hand through his fur.

"You and me are going to have a sleep-over, Toby," she whispered.

# # #

John scowled at the text on his phone before lifting his eyes to look at his wife sitting on the other side of their dinner table. Mary smiled gently at him. "You know it's all right, John. Besides, if you two have to go over a crime scene together, you'll have a chance to nag him some more about talking to Molly."

John smiled back at her.

# # #

Sally swore she could feel the seconds ticking by as she awaited the Consulting Detective under the unfriendly scrutiny of his landlady. She racked her brains for a name, remembering that John's blog called her Mrs. Hudson just as Holmes came back running down the stairs, looking fit to greet the world and bubbly as ever at the thought of an unusual crime. Sally could almost be relieved.

"Mrs. Hudson, Molly's coming over to see to my bacteria. She might need food," he said.

"You mean you might need food, whenever it is that you come back," Mrs. Hudson chided. "Molly always bring her own and shares."

"Yes, save me some," he said as he darted towards the door.

"I'm your landlady and she's your girlfriend, dear, not your housekeepers."

Sally bid Mrs. Hudson goodbye, to which she responded frostily, before hurrying after Sherlock, opting out of thinking what sort of bacteria the man who kept human eyeballs in the microwave might grow.

# # #

Sally kept casting covert glances to the man in the back-seat of her car, as she manoeuvred her way through the maze of London traffic. She was nowhere near having a better understanding of him and still feared he might be a dangerous psychopath but could no longer bring herself to act around him the way she used to, since she was almost positive she owned him her life. Sally usually avoided thinking of the bizarre story of her and her colleagues short-lived Anthrax infection. It was better that way, especially since she had had to sign a document pertaining to the Official Secrets Act, by which she agreed never to mention that fact to anyone ever.

That didn't mean, however, that she wasn't happy to have made out of it alive. She still had nightmares of it. She remembered Molly collapsing shortly after she had gone to ask their doctors about the most recent developments. Sally had rushed to her, heart beating out of her chest. Molly had wheezed something about how he had gotten them an antidote, before she had been whisked away. Sally hadn't needed a name to know who had saved them all.

The knowledge didn't sit well with her and not because she was now in his debt, but because it irked her to realise just how much he had underestimated him, not that she suspected his actions of altruism now. She had always thought him to be just a nut-case circling police investigations, but if he were anywhere near in league with the people having orchestrated both the rapid intervention and the cover-up of the Anthrax incident, then he was much highly connected than she had ever imagined. She had never lacked courage, however, under the circumstances, it was sheer common sense than she toned down the expression of her distaste of him.

He finished fiddling with his mobile, just as they were approaching the crime scene, and met her eyes in the rear-view mirror. "All right, Sally, this gratitude lark is annoying. However, if you must entertain it, you should know I've tasked John with collecting any and all tokens of appreciation," he said in a bored monotone.

Apparently he felt that even the Official Secrets Act was yet another law that did not apply to him. She sighed, focusing on the road with more intent than needed. "Thank you," she said, since he had opened the discussion. "I know that's probably not why you did it, but that doesn't mean I'm not grateful for saving mine and my colleagues' lives."

He turned to look outside the window, presenting her in her back-view mirror with an inscrutable profile, before he spoke again. "And how long can I expect to be pestered by your new-found sense of obligation?"

The implied insult in the words was tempered down by something she could not quite identify in the tone of his voice. It sounded a lot like aggravation but it could also be bitterness. She couldn't tell for certain. Her attention had always been riveted to what he had been saying, which was normally deprecatory, than to how he had been saying it.

"I just thought you should know," she said, feeling at a loss.

He didn't reply, continuing to stare to the darkened city outside her car window. Sally decided to let the uncomfortable silence reign. After all, they were almost at their destination.

# # #

Mrs. Hudson pocked her head into the kitchen, just as Molly was finishing her phone call with Mary. "Are you sure we're not bothering you, love?" the elder woman wanted to know.

Molly put her mobile away and returned to Sherlock's microscope. "No, not at all. I just need to check on the cultures on schedule and make notes on their progress. It's really not much work."

Mrs. Hudson came into the kitchen and put the kettle on. "When will Marry be here?"

"She said twenty minutes," Molly replied absently, as she typed something on the experiment calendar on Sherlock's laptop. She had come up with the idea that, since the guys were busy and supervising Sherlock's bacteria would not take much time, she and Mrs. Hudson should have Mary over for a session of tea, sweets and _Britain's Got Talent _on the Detective's telly.

"Have you two argued?" Mrs. Hudson asked, concern slipping into her voice, as she took a seat at the table opposite from Molly. The older woman didn't elaborate on whom she meant but then again she didn't have to.

Molly winced and looked up from the computer screen, a tinge of pain singing her. "No, but he is angry with me. Or at least, he acts like he is."

Mrs. Hudson nodded thoughtfully. "He is Sherlock," she said firmly. "So we'll never really know what goes on in that head of his, but I do believe he cares for you."

Molly licked nervously at her lower lip, her mind slipping back to that dark night of the soul when she and Sherlock had set in motion his staged suicide. It had been the most emotional she had ever seen him before that point. "I get the impression that showing emotion is almost physically painful for him," she said, weighting her words carefully. "I don't want to push him into anything he's not comfortable with."

Mrs. Hudson reached over the table and squeezed Molly's hand affectionately. There was an odd gratitude in her smile. Molly smiled back.

TBC


End file.
